It takes an old blanket
deep in the closet
clinging to a smell made partly
by the stories that she would read to me
and her seat at the edge of my bed.
There will be easy days, she said,
and weeks that turn out well.
But now I know of the cold
crouching naked in the storm.
Years and moons repeat themselves,
enough that I forget
that a song was once good for only a tune
lyrics merely a shape of the mouth
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