The first whiff is a havoc:
Hit me like a wharf,
Or a rose in shell-shock.

I can’t see the heart
Leaving me in a fine carriage,
Too formal—

My throat closed on a confection
And I’m afraid to kiss.
And nothing is a keepsake but

I am the fever on the frozen lawn
Reaching to touch
I can’t remember what for grief,

Until spring
I breathe
And remember.

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