An Open Window or Three, Birch Bay.

Still wind chimes and
windy road side pull outs.
Waiting with sweaty palm camera’d Canadians
for a clear shot
of something the morning only whispered about.

All those Saturdays.
My first beer in three years and
your first cannoli.
We wore our shoes to bed
and touched each other from across the room.
Promised to turn off the T.V.
Squeezed our hands through the chain link fence of
near misses. Waiting to sail,
window to water tower
and listen our names into its sides.

I had this dream where I didn’t let go.


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