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Poetry: Life Long Love
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by Heather

it was either write or call you
and I chose the less extreme
(though the night is young)
and my fingers are jumpy, touchy
ready to baptize themselves in
garden dirt bicycle grease murky lake
water and emerge sinfully clean.
while fingernails stubbornly trap
cloudy days where soap refuses to migrate.
Only pushing your number
bleaches holy hands into nervous rest.

 
 
 
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