ghosts
Stewart and I made love, and the fog climbed into bed with us
casting white shadows on pale figures.
I can read your thoughts, Stewart:
too many times have you put me in daisy gardens,
too many times have I seen a blur of myself
trumpeting through the woods.
Too many times have you pictured me as I was.
In my mind, though,
I am always near the frozen lake
under a yellow light
and in that stillness, I search for you beneath the ice.
I am always birthing something.
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