She moved the plants higher, dug a ditch,
froze the deli tray, thought of Charleston,
of May, of next May.
He thought I have you again
of coming back to the house with
her in it only,
of Charleston, of summer tomatoes.
She heard settling
of pages, of water ruined and well massaged pages,
of the still, of distilled metal to quiet,
quiet sheets,
her own breath.
The quiet parts between her own.
Of space and often
the things not in corners.
ap 10, 08
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