Blue 71

Poem By S. R. Lavin

Stopping on the bridge, just a short bike ride from town,
on a lonely stretch of new york highway -
where the marsh maps the land -
if you listen you hear
the rivulets like blood
pulsing under your skin,
the rustle of grasses
and milk thistle tops
like fingers
caressing your arm
and the crickets in ululation
as I sit here
weeping
because I could not save you
and it's evident I can't save myself
from wanting you.
I come here every day
to be in the sanctuary of our love.
It's obvious to me now
as never before
all that time I thought
I was taking care of you
when really
you were taking care of me.

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