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I fell in love with a ghost, with your
Making love to someone else
And keeping scraps of me in your head,
While I still remember your trembling
Under my sunflower duvet cover,
Warming your hands under flannel,
Brushing dust from my armchair
After long summers on the screened in porch
That hummed with the smell
Of pine needles, old wood, and mothballs
That were hung from the rafters in my old butterfly
socks.
Bridgton, Maine and our Christmas tree farm
Lining the driveway were we sat owl-watching,
Was where I drank from a wine glass
Your waking words, a tonic of rum.
In this year I would like to return
And touch the hoverings of you still drifting
Around my world war two cot of a bunk bed
And watch my past settle on the still water
And sink just to tangle in the lily pad stems
Where I cannot reach any parts of it,
Out past the loons
That dunk their slick heads
Looking for sunfish in sand nests.
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