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Catastrophe abounds
when you reach
behind me to touch
my hair
and whisper, “Shush,
it’s the night and I am
here to save you
from yourself.” I can
only see beyond the castles
and trees moving
with respirative awareness
and think, “You are the end of me.”
Your wordless presents
prevent my absolution
from the faltering winter
sky and dislocate my
heart and tenuous soul to a place
frozen with memory.
Grey clouds lay
the heartiest of death wishes
on any smartly dressed
field. I lay
watching your chest
heave life. I can see
this theft of my will,
as a cloud of breath
against February air.