our love no longer transcends
but exists on its own, holding
us together loosely like wearing
a bathrobe over our feelings;
our love, like Monet's lilies, float
aimlessly in our backyard pond,
waiting for Spring landscapers
to divorce the old ones out;
our love, freezes like ice on a
clothesline since thaws never
arrive early anymore, preventing
us from changing our feelings.
9Jan14
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