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Gathering Winds

Something in the easy air
of our now in-common town
will blow through Boston (I'd like to think)

luffing the edges of that tent
of discontent
you wrapped around yourself,

you can open your arms now
for the gathering winds.

Remnants you scatter about me:
A green bracelet bereft without your winter-tan wrist,

markings in my notebooks,
moments you earmarked for sadness,
now fallen away unnoticed, errata in a tome.

Your blond hair has blown
down the downtown
wind-tunnels, funneling the usual

admiring glances from those
you'll never know or might
if you come back.

They'll wait, we'll all wait,
we miss you, dear,
like the last train out

like the chimera we call home.

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