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Past the yard with the rusty pool, past the woods with
the bootworn paths, through the triangle of tree farm,
you are waiting in a car.
Let me tell you where I am: past the common, past
the park that smelled of high-heeled roses, through
the deserted turnpike booth.
I still know your house, ten houses from mine, its
stairs to the light of your bedroom, its stairs to the
bottle-dark basement, your daily walk from yours to
mine now only in my imagining like the dreams of
drivers flashing headlights on the pond while we sat
on the dam and tried to speak of what would come.
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