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In the seeming falsehood 
of early spring
winter’s stark contrast
persists past the glow 
of sunlight streaming through 
time-yellowed venetian blinds
or the moan of a melting heart  
and blood approving.


If feeling is truly first,
then I swear this is love
by all curious bar room glances
bits of garbled conversation
and this cigarette’s sweet perfume—
I swear it by every clumsy embrace.


If I am wholly to be a fool 
while this moment is in the world—
I embrace foolishness,
even if it lingers
only for a day. 

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