In the Cellar, Near the Oil-Based Paint

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When I finally surrender to storing
“my relationship with you,” next to “your
relationship with me,” in the cellar, near
the oil-based paint

my relationship with you stood strong and
supple like an August ear of corn.  Your
relationship  with me was a tissue paper
husk.  A relic.

There were times, I remember,
when your relationship with me would startle
you into recognition from the corner
where it took up residence

and where you’d sometimes rifle around for
a classic, or that clipping with the thing, and I’d hear
you go, “Oh hey, how you been?”

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