it would be like this?
Always a pattern
of deadlines and late
nights forever breaking the bread
of haste. Idle moments too
small for hands to hold. Every
clock ticking bewilderment like a toy.
Am I impatient? A north wind
plumps my cheeks like a rose as the night
deepens its well. Curled beneath
the weight of winter blankets he takes
my hand the way an old trumpet recalls a familar note.
His old sack filled with the burden
of desires now as the evergreens begin to glisten
and bow in the moonlight and departure
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