the way a brook runs under snow
on a winter’s night
as if I wouldn’t know
what lies hidden in plain sight

is the way I find you
under a winter’s slate of sheets
and a pillow or two
(uncovering you is bittersweet);

but I am drawn and must
like a tributary
and with the slightest thrust
find out the ways your waters carry

and in you disappear
(who disappears this coldest time of year).



February 10th 2019 | William Crimson

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