what use we’d make of small rooms.
what command you had of a dialect
i never knew i ached to learn.
i met him when your tide receded
skim milk gloves and impeccable grammar,
passionate as bran.
bring wine, i’d always say.
and i’d lay my head on his silent chest
in that spot where all winter
we’d watch the north dance -
greens, whites and goodnights.
when his sleepy hands found me
your name would fill my mouth,
my teeth would bite it in half.
a friend said sweetheart you’ve lost your puppy,
go on and put him down,
and my father said write what you know.
well i knew this and i knew you,
my sweet young professor -
shut the door behind you
when you go.
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