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I can see our hill from here
What people said to scare us off
Putting a word in, like this my dear?
Life can be so Nabokov

Laughed her name Véra had me from the very first
Smelled like cherries it would be our only summer
To meet secretly in the meadow of our great thirst
Only to make fun with me I doubt she will remember

Smiling thru octagons of horned rim glass
The sixties seemed consumed by sweater knits
Conspiring bulges did the boys embarrass
Years and years ago I’m still helpless with her tits

Imagining our hill can see us from here
Daydreaming up top that she had tagged along
With our fantasy split in two futures cleaved by fear
Haunted by worries we had chosen wrong

Sight’s gifts are taken for granted no longer
So many surprises linger still the memories strong
Sticky as a honey drizzle sweet and slow to smother
Lights her schmata one more time sings my song.

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