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Terri Witek
POEMS
 

What To Wear


Before our clothes grow too young for us
or droop, gray and funereal,
on a day when the yard's unpruneables

bend back to the shears
and pollen grits the dog's blown coat,
remember the plans we made to walk naked.

The sky, wheeling blank mirrors,
would rehearse our promenade
(you'd keep your shoes, me an umbrella)

as cars nosed their way through loose gravel
and in the half-lit rooms of the clothed
phones jingled their need, suddenly,

to reach each other. As we had,
we thought breezily, without the usual trouble.

   
   
   

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