Life is complementary to life.
It is too many things not to match with itself:
The muscle-clench crunch of December snow,
fifteen minutes of afternoon sleep,
bank swallows darning the air.
In the morning we wrap lunch in wax paper,
go swimming in our clothes,
lie in the unleavened sunlight.
I would happily make sandwiches with you
until breast cancer finds and kills me.
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