I would need a piano, a banjo, a guitar. Something to keep my voice company. Some blanket with which to wrap your bad poetry.
We’d mimic the rabbit coats with layers and layers. Wood smoke over wools over silks over skin.
On dog trails gusts through snow drifts would call out hymns like last breaths. And I bet your breath is gorgeous, an aurora, when spread out over frigid and crystal edged window panes.
I’d promise to mend all the holes. Stitch every last tiny tear.
And with this tougher northern skin, wipe every tear.

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