Today I saw a woman
rinsing out glass bottles, and I wondered
where they go; the loves that end unfinished.
The child who watches in a park
lovers wearing the same passion
their parents put out at the curb
only yesterday, knowsthey return
to the fire and reignite in a flash
of golden feathers. Old leather
is patched and polished for sentiment, but also
for the knowledge it holds
of shape and movement.
But not everyone is content
to take the leavings of the dead.
Sometimes I see
new and emergent loves, self-sufficient,
proud of their shallow individuality
and their mortality, that mutate invisibly
in the host and leave no trace
when they depart.















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