I think of you
building root cellars
in Minnesota
growing old
in snows that fall
endlessly
of how
we were young together
in southern Aprils
in summers gone to legend and dream
(Jean Seberg still in Iowa
Grace Kelly's children
not yet born)
of how you said once
no man is faithful
that you'd like to have children
without a husband
I want to write to you
(I'll use blue paper
the color you preferred
above all others)
I want to tell you how
last year I drove that road
along cliffs
over the Mediterranean
the one Grace Kelly drove
in that movie we saw
three times
Last fall I read
Bonjour Tristesse
again
Listened to Jackie Gleason's
Music to Make You Misty
(the scratch you made
on the second band
still there)
I want to describe to you
the flavor of apples
in hidden orchards
I want to ask you
questions you will not answer
I want to answer
questions
you will not ask
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