We were kids in the same city
and we went to the same parks,
and gripping large hands we looked
up at the same store windows,
neon letters on the delis,
tiny gardens in front of old brownstones.
We must have crossed the street
in the same crowd once before.
But I met you old
after I came home
from cramming miles of highway and sea
and fields of hills of amber leaves
up into my sleeve.
And you couldn't see it all fall out
when I let my hand down
to brush yours
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