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by Cynthia Linkas

One night in Canada
we are talking about everything.

Everything but the certainty of your death,
round and round the rim of our sorrow
and our fear of parting.

We fall onto our backs on the worn, wooden dock,
by a million stars,
bright and alive across the sky.

And for a second, we know
that love is not limited to this moment.

It is not in us.
We are in it.

The night sky is swathed in flecks of light.

It is our first comfort
since we understood
that you would go.


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