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Year
This can only go well. 

I hold your hand
throughout the storm.  

We swell together. 
Two seeds break open. 

I day your arbor.
You arbor my need.  

Let us not plead our 
case for love as storm.

Here we are warm in the park after 
dark beneath the newspaper wet.  

Stained with ink we are that fading 
photograph of the bride and groom. 

We are marked most likely 
to flower in any season.

Caution thrown to wind, 
blind lightning stabs the dark. 

Sparks kindle perimeter pines.
The park is aflame. 

The music of the gazebo gutter 
waltzes clumsily on.

We make a run for it.

The dance is close. 

It is now. 

It is ours.
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