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And so it’s gone forever? Just like that?
The slowest growing forest leveled, set?
I think not. Blue smoke rises; even so,
belief had better take a walk all night. 

As spring itself is unpredictable,
so every kiss engendered in the chill 
damp grass, backlit by technicolor eve
(lakeside behavior being what it is),

sets off a rampant ripple, inner spring 
acutely coiled then evermore past tensed. 
And afterwards? A storm strained through streetlamps,
conviction like an avalanche on lock, 

now-knowing what you miss, knowing what gives.
For here’s the thing about true love: it lives.
Posted 12/18/18
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