it should not hurt
so to talk like this
to breathe in the miles
and miles and miles
and nothing miles
between our houses
when they should be
an arms length apart
and that only
and nothing more but
thresholds and dreams and nights
and bread between us
this is a nothing saying poem
it is a shaken little thing
a pitiful unweaned
still warm-bodied
holding itself poem
jul 2
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