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rsc Dec 2014
tender tendrils of
affection find their
way back to
wrap around my
fingers, some
remnant of last
december when we were
knocking teeth and
locking limbs.

notion clocking in:
if i hold this feeling
up to the light,
will i see it as
counterfeit or
genuine?

how precarious,
i pop bubbles
without knowing
whether more will
blow downwind to
my anxious hands
reaching up to
make them mine and
losing them in
palm-touch time.
Spent the afternoon in a coffee shop going through a book of Bukowski, and was challenged by a friend to write a poem that was short, sweet, and to the point

— The End —