lost in a snowstorm in Wisconsin
baking on the stones of Samos
waiting for you on a bench in Paris
having a sandwich in Ipswich
or noticing a frotteur in Monteux
where the Ficus is a delicate princess
channeling forlornness into the world
but your point is not punctuation
that an asterisk be a kiss
on the lips of the reader
as it was on the writer’s before
whether from beauty or sorrow
wasn’t the heart always escaping
as if it had any rights of its own
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