Being There

while you jabber wocky into my ear, I will stare out the back window at the
snow drifting over the dead field, the sun dogs, the ice caked at the bottom of the
pane. You’ll follow my eyes and sigh and say, yes, it’s a tundra out there today,
isn’t it?

Yes, today it is, I’ll say, but I will not sigh, will not breathe, will not
betray my being there. And we will continue in this way, my tapping toe
keeping time to your heartbeat.

The mollifying machine restlessly wrestles.


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