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The small of winter

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  • The small of winter

    The small of winter

    Scent of Morgan
    She will leave you guessing
    Same as she did me
    Our short days unfolded
    Striped pants, stained ripe olive
    Outside A jail cell
    They held my belongings
    Don’t ask me to explain
    My stuttering and shivering
    Sockless inside my boots
    Lately I always come late
    Breathalyzer never waits
    Miss Hutchens reads
    I will never put my mouth upon that
    Her beautiful throat
    Thin lips painted the same that I paint
    Offering poetry at fourteen
    Staggering through the snow
    Paths to spring
    We eventually never arrived
    Perfect is a mess best served frozen
    Your handle of cast iron
    Breakfast for years and still hunting
    Frosted hair and warm pancakes
    And Morgan reads
    The end of a beautiful train
    Blue and yellow faded
    Broken bath sink
    Submarine tile and the shower chair
    My sadness hidden by the late show
    News always ended the day
    Days always ended my search
    Now winter has found me again
    I haven’t the strength anymore
    To climb that hill
    Towards the top beneath the pines
    You and I would still be alive
    Where I waited for you to come home
    You thought I loved you
    I was just a boy
    Yet those warm sticky lips kissed me
    Locking all these prison doors
    Me and my memories and winter
    The wreaked car
    Stiff concrete on the bridge
    Smell of electricity and bondage
    Handcuffs and humiliation
    I almost made it home
    If it weren’t for the small of winter
    We would be together