FOOL METhe flowers are not the fool that I am, rising on a February morning to the crackle of sun warm before its time, thawing and lighting a room not so long ago, a safehouse for nightmares. Nor are you the dupe, merely the absence it takes a moment or two to recognize and those rays, an ally a breath ago, now shine the sheets somewhere beyond loss. Then comes the phone call, your voice, more Indian summer, as familiar as hunger, desire, solitude, regret. You ask “How am I doing?” “Fine,” I say. The sun agrees. But the flowers keep their own counsel. A DARKENING |
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