winter has emptied the pub
a snowplow scrapes away what remains
another scheme creative dream unfolds
i think of a song in italian
che so bello da morire
you’re so beautiful i might die
between hands i hold the need
to touch his fingers
i take his words lovingly inside
plate scraping substitutes
for a full meal
when the meal is done
this morning i wake late
the sound of his voice in my dreams
i am so hungry
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