Oh to be buried
neath layers of maritime
snowflakes and seagrass,
The beaches at once
white hot and riddled the same
as a bent knuckle.
I dream of black dogs,
quartz crystal, and Vietnam,
wake to only cold,
chase footprints in shades
of blue and white, but never
find what morning took.
Here, we salt the streets
and wait for our loneliness
to bloom when spring comes.
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