Pink sabers stab a volume of Ashbery

and I shake the crying alphabet out of the pages

as soon as I am done checking my email.

 

I have three from God, but they look lengthy.

Maybe tonight before bed. B nudges my thigh.

T and F comfort each other,

 

latched for dear life. N bellows,

and C tries to slip under the table

unnoticed, but I catch him.

 

I want to reassemble them, create an audio montage

of the aural imprint of love

because I see its notes, high and low, everywhere

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