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Jan 132010
 

by George Bishop

friends reflected in water

As children

love wouldn’t let us

say goodbye, kept sex

a myth away and certain

rooms locked. If we wrote

the pages were kind,

each emptiness open,

full of the words

we hadn’t discovered—

the ones that come to us

now, longing to reach back,

knowing now they can only go

as deep as the end of a pen.

Touching then, touching now.

Still learning to spell

by the light of a keyhole,

to believe by the heart

most children cross.