“watering a frozen garden”

our hidden bungalow
in our coupled imagination
is still there
to me
and to me
there’s a quilt in there
that still smells like us
and an alarm clock
that’s never set

and — as i described once —
a door-to-door fishmonger
with a bucket of shaved ice
and the fresh catch
(and a hook for a hand)
at our door
yelling his wares

and to me a fireplace
and more snow and distance
than anyone we had left behind
could navigate

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