we do not love the same, you and I,
as you showed me with honey and birch beer.
though I know you’ve become a blossom of dust
scattered under trotting horses
and in spring-flush streams,
the taste of dust is better to me,
and my lips are blue from long draughts.
they have said you are a very great teacher,
and learning is the best antidote to fear.
you whispered, this is indeed music!
and I closed the bedroom window partial
to the sound of murmuring voices in the neighbor’s parlor.
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