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Michelle Detorie

Already it is as though your body
is far below the ice — barely a thread
shows through light the color of bone.

The imagined world is a world
where we, not our secrets,
are kept safe from each other.

In this light — this time of year —
to love you is knowing
you could hurt me.

If we were farther north,
there'd be wood chopping
I suppose, and fewer birds.

But even here the clouds
are a dull nickel thick
and the river as flat as a knife.

In the morning the trees bow
as though they are fire;
the wind is a clear thing — a body —
                   your summer body — steam.

Michelle Detorie

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