Dear Uncertain Altitude,

What you wanted and what wanted you, these were not the same. We woke in a room of dusty books
and you rolled away
from my body, muttering corrigenda, gutter, coptic stitch. Sun through the upper window
cast a grainy salt stain on your
face. It is impossible now to say what should come first: a grey wind frets
the thickets as you write
the ropy cold will
soon give way. On Sundays I try to work, but nothing stays folded long.
When we crossed the bridge with the broken slats,
you wouldn't look down at the river. I said, stare the angles
in the face
. That was a mistake, Uncertain Altitude. The dog
and I spend each morning with our shadows parsing
the shore but how else would I know you if not for the crimp in your walk.
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