No home, he says,
eyes sliding up the side
of my cheek, glancing off.
He means this-does-not-hurt-me
but I feel the icicles
gather there.
He grins and I build
stainless steel curves
spanning tumbling rivers,
morning touching skyscrapers
in a galloping race of fire,
window-boxes with neat rows
of coloring-book perennials,
a guitarist, a curb-side...
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