| Poems with Punchlines |
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We are fighting, again.
This time it's interior, night. Outside, stacks of apartments gain inches (in crystalline water), while the landscape moves from ragged to quilted to lunar. You fall asleep angry, so I escape into the white night. The flakes are astounding, like miniscule mirrors, or mountains of table sugar. Precipices of ice catching the sodium street lamps like highballs in a china cabinet. I bore deep holes in the newness as I go, carving through the freckles of earlier soles. Back in Bed, you snore sweetly. I lie unasleep for a long time, listening to your breath, and the plows scraping by.
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