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Poem
Jonathan Harris

that I will never show her because she will think it’s strange

You exist only as still frames in my head.

My name whispered with furrowed brow
like a hard question—
drunk balloon tied onto my bed.

Your perfect stillness.

When I said I had reservations I meant second thoughts,
not plans for Friday night,
not these dreams about meeting you for breakfast—

How much does inner warmth cost
in the eye-blurring air,
among the ominous trees,

below the permafrost?

Conversation never gets old
for those who hardly speak.
After all, it is known

 

that stars are brighter when it’s cold.

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