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Drafts, Poetry

A Path; Pond, and then Sinking

I have learned not to question

where I find you.

Bent over the fire-escape, vomiting


into the alley where I ran after you

that night last year. I still ask myself why we walked

from Kendall to the Pru? If I could remember,

I’d remember walking upon water

to cross the Charles, your footsteps

sending small splashes to frighten the fish

and rowers.


Your flask a fountain, if we ever ran low

I’d follow the sound of faint humming. Often

it is Charlie Parker or Lady Gaga, the moment

knows no sense of propriety.


And still, after twenty-six years we have learned things.

Like how to tolerate hot water in July, or

how to fly a kite while sleeping sound.


Often I am that flat rock skipping

toward the center of a pond;


I am sinking and floating. This must be

how flying fish and water striders feel.


Meet me past the gate of the gardens,

my shadow and I get along great

now that the winter has died.



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