TROUT LOVE
she called it love
A cloak against the winds
Of ideath and loneliness
But Brautigan and multi-colored days
Were like a stranger to her
There was never a trout in her
Dreams; nothing as warm as Margaret
Between us
It wasn't love, not like Pauline
Not close or real like the fine
Berries we shared for breakfast.
She called it love but it wasn't
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