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Almost Winter 

We still have the Echo,
which I drive with
pruned hands flexing away
from the cold skin of the wheel or clenching
till my knuckles turn white, and you still fiddle
with the radio till the sound clashes
with the colors of the trees and I clash with you,
itching to get away from the cold of the seat and each other,
laughing because the tension is so at ease
and for a second, we forget we are used to each other,
curl our hands, half covered
in the sleeves of faded sweaters,
and unable to touch the wheel to steer,
pull over the car to watch the iced sky
rain hot blooded leaves.

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