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Poem: Making Love in Middletown 

the yellow paint on your bedroom walls

is the opening act for the sunlight.

the light breaks your heart every day

and you are soo open to loving.

you carried the willow stump, collected with moss

across the hay field to me

and placed it on the deck, a beloved specimen.

we pulled and plucked our boots off—

now to study each other.

i buried my head alongside you

between you and your familiar robe

while you read Eliot and we found

our selves in England,

healing for the rest of our lives.

each one of those tuesdays when we left each other

not knowing if we would have another,

it was like we were practicing dying.

we used every bit of what belonged to yesterday.

—shokan

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