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Lover’s Quarrel 

I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.
—Robert Frost’s epitaph

Like viewing the blunder
in a slight mix of pigments
after the paint is applied

I hear recrimination
enter your voice, much
as you would never want it.

John and Elizabeth quarreled,
as did Martha and George.
Some put quarrels on tombstones.

But I want your flower.
I want you to take my hand
and walk with me, walking

to where no blunders show,
where the eaves after frost
are radiant and solid.

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