List
Your letter comes laden with moral veils,
more welcome, in what you say in winking
than the words you choose. In fiddling song
a blackbird, somewhat in mood, flies between
the fence and the brushed concrete of the yard.
Not hard, you say, when speaking of love from
yesterday, and a vantage reticent
to see what we have. And weigh that we knot
in faddle, more heavily still. Do you
still wear your hair to the shoulder, I think,
your eyes greenish bright when smiling - I think -
then think no more of love, crumbling crumbs
between thumb and ring finger, scattering
them upon the nothingness of concrete.
When we meet, you excuse everything, your eyes
more willow in tone, as if caught in water.
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