younger,
you wrote a lot of gooey,
mushy
poems, call them love
poems, if you
wish,
handwritten persuasively
in your Catholic
school script,
but they were not that
exactly,
trying hard
to compare her to nature
in all its lovely
forms.
but in reality
you were trying to make
your way
around the bases,
greasing the wheels
sort to speak,
an anxious thumb on the scale,
when stuck on first.
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