Non-Erotic PoetryI do not remember where we areI do not remember where we are
Scattered like leaves
that still hold their autumn colors,
I gather you up and bind our stems;
wear your wreath like a crown.
Is there anything better
than a poet, my lover?
Answers weave a yarn
that binds us while we sleep.
In the morning, twisted braids
of spring weathered words
bud and blossom around our ankles.
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