I have an old friend who was once my lover.
When I visit her we never talk about the past,
as if the memories are sleeping, curled in
the last blue seashell in her small collection.
Whenever itâs not raining, we go fishing
at a deep pool on the other side of town.
If you look hard you can see the thick
trout balancing the water on their backs.
When it rains we sit and read, or listen to
her records. At times I watch
her lift her eyes up from the page and stop,
as if the words themselves have lost their meaning.
1972 ~ New Canaan, Connecticut
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