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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
prepare
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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