Winter Won’t Kill You

summer picnic

But the winter won’t kill you.

Your crystalline face
buried deep in the soil of my soul.

What is the soul,
but everything remembering everything?

I kissed you under a street lamp
in the Upper East Side
around midnight,
got busy with my hands,
you wore tight hot pink panties.

The aristocrats dreamed.

We kissed in a field in Texas.
Always passionate kisses in the throws
of sex.

I was 26 years old when I ran down
the streets of New York City
in my hiking boots
at a six-minute mile pace
with her by my side,
months before we’d meet each other.

Who is she?
Who are you?
What is this?

It’s in the soil.

I don’t think you’re in the City right now.

You may be in Vermont, or that could be
our ghost.

But the winter won’t kill you.

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