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(First published in the June 2013 Vol. 2.3 of Stone Highway Review)


Mornings slip through our fingers, we lay

hammock-bound in vanilla summer’s heat—

you keep telling that myth; in your bed, your painkiller sleep,

and I read Proust stories aloud to the dancing trees, dreaming of Normandy.

Days pass with cumulus clouds, red wine, puppy cuddles,

rain and sadness that seep under the window and swell the sill.

You have been running and running and at night my fingers seek

the new fibers of muscle that pull under your soft skin

like the standard vesture of ships.