Two-hundred miles
of spanning Ontario
can’t mend us now,
Stratford standing halfway between
Windsor and The Falls—
moonlit intermission
of Beaugolais and brie.
We argue like lovers—
in silence,
iambs sliced in two,
motes of blank verse
spill out over burning rivers,
deep gorges
of misunderstanding.
Midsummer, I grasp your myth,
clutch your magic,
and you, quietly speak my folly.
We find no middling words
to bridge this undiscovered country,
no kisses,
no mumbled apologies...
I think of you often
and know your aria
never stops praying
for rest.
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