pot-laced chocolate-chip cookies fatten
the sweet distance that grows after we nest
together our souls age, weaken, to yield
uneaten pasta and unplanted palms
and unfinished sentences confess it
though I talk to you about it often
when we’re not talking – a horizon smiles,
protects us from the lust we have for each other
wise, I’m thinking you think I want something
more than the miracle we have foreseen:
two elderly old friends in thirty years
still slathering one another with space
candles tinkle “anam cara” and the
Gaelic backlights choice flowers from your yard
lila.p.levy, August
1997
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