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Say what you want, Frank,
forever asking after shimmering names
of things, it’s cheery enough in here. If we’re left
to boredom in sad-wheeling not-air, why not, you’re
a skater and I’m fourteen, your mittened hand’s forever
next to mine on the ice rail. Geraniums like red lanterns
that row toward Christmas, everything lit and backlit,
so real, better than blinkers outside splintering the
cake glass. Sphere of loneliness, idiomatic vacuum
filled with the sound of nothing/snow
is there a carol for ever-leaving,
one for the icestarlings studding the arboretum?
Cold enough to breathe now, we keep small,
ever-glitter felled on likeness of trees.
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