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Park Bench

It’s seventy degrees in November
Empty steam swirls through my lungs
but every day is a sunrise I let sit on my tongue
till it bleeds more than the strawberry juice
I think I just tasted yesterday, so
I sit on a park bench and listen.

This wood can’t tell me anything
I can’t soak in through my skin,
this horizon’s fading silver
and the air glitters blue

They say the world can’t love in winter
but sitting here I see it kissing the coming winter.




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