To My Last Loveby Linda Etheridgethat severely chilled night. I walked in snow, high heels slipping furiously on ice and blacktop trying to locate your hypnotic face. Streetlights seemed dim, flickering (let us find each other out of all of Manhattan in spite of hate, avarice). When I reached Grand Central my feet dissolved from the cold, you were there- I fell into your arms and died of relief. Nowadays, I sing to myself "white bird must fly" you smile slightly balancing paintings in winter's chalice. |
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