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Why I Leave the Window Open in Early March

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It makes the room just cold enough
that the hairs on our arms stand up
and we compensate by huddling
closer together on the sheets,

another kiss along your neck
like a drop of dew slipping off
a white Plumeria petal
in a garden near the Buick

where your voice was steady and coarse,
same sound as the idling engine,
your breath the hiss of the heater
(no windows open in your car)

and in the same voice, that same hiss
you tell me to stay a little
longer in the marine-blue sheets,
our soft cocoon by the window.

We became moths, not butterflies.





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