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  • Williamstown became the island where i’d
    hang my laundry to dry out the car door.

    Mango every Sunday with toast, to the radio.
    Ants in the kitchen swept back through the door.

    Entire afternoons devoured by the plaid couch, limbs of
    tendril nature, clambering up through a white curtained door.

    Mornings reluctant to find our small unwelcome guests taking
    refuge in the glittering plastic cave behind the cabinet door.

    The cloak of fog atop the overlook, the single wolf tree resting
    Along the crumbling riverbed, barefoot through spring’s open door.

    Silt and rot kicked loose from the bottom of the lake. Uncombed
    hair on damp sallow skin, you would carry through the door.

    While the prism of my youth, turning granules into boulder
    A smoldering of green from beneath the bedroom door

    On occasion, without warning, I would find your naked body
    A kernel in its husk, pressed tightly behind an unlocked door.

    We would force ourselves into the light, in dizzying heat, like
    unripened fruit. Hollow bones floating on thin air out the back door.

    To a gentle entanglement of weeds along the pond
    I would leave you, for only a moment, to close the door.
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