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is this the day
I might have traded
for another life somewhere
cotton sheets
and sunday morning –
with nothing much
to spare

you played to me
are stretched along the line
as the scent
of summer storms
swirls beneath
the pines

a crooked board
a broken cup –
rings I’ve traced before
moments I was wanting
for another –
so much more

whispers bind
my life of pieces –
and everything is new
hands are fit together
as I’m falling
into you

. . .