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changing sheets, doing choresWe are prepared.Rolling down thecornstalks of our sleevesuntil all the cotton stemsare steering south,letting the lintsmiles slink acrossthe grey expanse ofmorning,then to making the bed.The sheets feel like sidewalksscuffed by summer -we are catching upthe flannel loose-changeand leaving sparkson the carpet -starch and sunburn,and little lightning strikesunder the blackof our fingers,and then we arejust strobe-lightssingedand downywarmth,and somewherewe were toldchores were harderthan this
you've been gone findingyou come back hailing smokeand raining moss, hair unwillingand a little crazed -you are rifling through all the impossible questionsmaking philosophy professors chairs creak -i can almost hear the pagesslither past.you've been gone finding yourself.all thechalk-tongued chattererstelling us This is how the world worksare laying thickand clock sure - you swipe at this wildlyyou are sayingwith the life in your eyes,study,study with me: the raining copper tongues and frogs croaking bulbous the furl of bark when it is strippedyou are asking with your heavy wet sleeves stitched in water-rustfor u
winter,it was us in winterwhich meant the cold snuffedshadows and long darkdays and firelit smiles -the long stretch of yarnundercovers - rolling overon tummies bare with warmthalgae'd shutters before the striking greens,and troweling your hair backin a slough of dampness,afternoons stagnant likerefrigerated white wines,raining down sheets ofstatic.and all the things we are addicted to,like the feel of a good book, or a goodfire, or a good whiskey,that settle into us little rilingmoments of joyin a seemingly long thick expanse of timespent counting thread skeletonsagainst ship lantern mornings,and everythingin you wanting tocurl up in yourfavorite coffee mugand sleep for a thousand years.