Placing your lips and shoulders on the carpet
Post-December hors d’œuvres in cold apartments
Once we comb our feathers and cure your longing
We sleep as winter pigeons on pavement falling
Grinning in clothes and timbers as I departed
Holding your hands and fingers as if applauding
Hunting the moon; hung so low, we might have caught it
Placing your lucky clovers on the carpet
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