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What is this twinge,

this ache, this basketful

of past desires

limp as old underwear. This

known routine of how we scratch

and cough and cut our nails

and drop clips in the toilet bowl.

The way you fold your socks

and borrow back my shaving cream.

This truce of fixed points

and necessary distance.

This flash of eyes

that breaks and soars

like songbirds scattered by falcons.

This pause, this warm stopped bass;

this pulse in the night.

This love.

Better Than Starbucks, Featured Poem, May 2022

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