How could ever there be heaven
more beautiful than April wind,
warm and not too heavy? Seven
unknowing days ago, we skinned
knees and elbows on the shining,
damp cement, and seven pining
and lonely days from here, we'll miss
the icicles of winter. This
moment--now--today--is nearer
than heart; it worms its way beneath
the muscles, slips between the teeth,
glistens in the belly, clearer
than mirrored light. To be outdoors
in April purifies our sores.
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