by Abigail Whitehouse

You’ll look like this forever-
dirty feet
bare, shuffling across
front porch concrete. A cool,
still morning

lifting to the left
of us, a lenient mixing-
            coffee steam and burning
pine, white smoke dissolving in
your background. A red herd

grazing, reflected in matching blue
panes. You’ll talk-
            cut through fog wisps, warm
breath. You’ll cough,

the chair beneath
            in this corner. You will tell
each story more
than once. And I won’t mind
settling in nails
our hands have driven,

white four-boarded fence
we’ve built around
these mornings. I’ll linger-

there will come a cool,
still morning
lifting to the left
of only me. All that was
you recorded in soil-
             lamenting pastures,
orchard grass and clover
I’ll become.

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