buried under the snow (somewhere) is our October love:
the slim kisses upon our unpursed lips,
the shaking thrusts of my hips
and the strained motions of your head
somewhere in dead leaves my hands found
the inclinations of your breasts, the soft caress
of your mouth and its words,
the taming that your finger laced through my chest
before the worry staggered home and leaped
into my chest, there we were, tangled up
and beaten down by unsure love,
like the summer had been beaten down
by October, the month of something dead
yet so alive
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