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by Rick Smith


A sudden stirring,
the restless, crazy L-shaped scar
carved by window pane
deep into your right arm and
where they sewed you back together,
I run lips up and down that ragged trail.


Then, in winter,
I'm driving over frozen gravel;
the branches of the cottonwood
are nearly mad with wind
and bending.


The satin slip
drops like snowfall,
noiseless but not truly silent.

There's always a soft hiss to it
in the landing
and then we can't stop laughing.


The meeting of breath,
hands and feet;
at the crossroads,
I make a wish,
run lips
up that wounded trail.

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