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The Winter Husband

Sam’s back. She can’t wolf offal like she could.
I'll wind this up; ice spangles the Honda’s hood.
What I’d hoped was a last circuit in the moonlight
had cured me of that fixed paradise:
glinting acres, gossamer wire and unmoved posts.
Beauty’s not pretty when it freezes the hair in your nose.
For some time a contrail marked the air.
Venus surveyed my progress with a flat stare.
Nothing gives -- the lip of a rut stands or breaks -- 
though my intergalactic breath dissipates.
Banked neighbors are locked in charm.
The wood’s a necropolis, Silver Lake’s Usher’s tarn.
I may exaggerate the rigors of walking the dog.
If the fire’s down, I can add this monologue.
Inside the house I've got tables and chairs,
clear channels, room everywhere.
If the bare idea of you makes these sheets less cold,
imagine the welcome when you get home.

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