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I'm no longer sure of winter's use & the ice-trapped snow shrunk its powder-glitter beauty down & held on where & how it could & being a stoic pioneer in the elements was never glamourous or freeing & really weighted down our otherwise high-spirited skirts. Snow never tastes like sex, even in the mountains. I refuse to beg seasonally & prefer amorous gratitude when you are closer by, though sideways & metaphorically except where our elbows crash lightly accidental. It is Yankee to submerge lament but not to wrap it up gorgeously like a gift hidden. And so here, & there. Two buttons undone is a compromise & please no stinging windchill wind the linden opens the air and desire is satisfaction I am counting the days to arrival. My wall is full of them & now wallpaper organic design multiplying. Christen me: broken rearranged mosaic epic. And haiku. Laconic iconic misadventuring mismatched relinquished reins grasp. You are delicately solid & overfeed my imagination with your potential, which is bound to disappoint reality. Where there is nothing, all remote possible architectures are breathtaking & tangible beyond reach. I could settle for history, but that wouldn't please you or your innovative eye shunning the past while occasionally fixed on it backwards glancing. You must find some equilibrium in the back & forth, you must, or how else could you get on with walking.
Boston 1999 Index