ana
she is an artist
in making a bed
of pine needles
snowshoe hair soft
beckoning me
to lay with her
inhaling the warm sun
throughout our creature fabric
exhaling it through
our flared noses
under the towering
voyeuristic trees
embracing one another’s
inquisitive souls
our heat
burning as one
until the earth holds still
so for the first time
we lovers
see
who is who
assuring each other
of our existence for that is what you wrote and I read after you were dead and it haunts me
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