Saturday, June 9, 2012


It's the wrong time for hoping,
he muttered, putting
the old rifle on its pegs
above the door.  We'll not have

meat before the first snow
when rabbits are seen
like polka dots against
the white muslin of that dress

you wore the night of Jake's
wedding.  You thought
I didn't remember, but
you were wrong. I see you

yet coming across the lawn,
skipping to the beat
of that low base
marking the rhythms

neither of us understood.
You refused to dance
and I left knowing
what never would be mine.

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