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Christina-Mare Umscheid

 
 
 
 

THE BUS LOOP

 

 

At a long ago bus stop

you wouldn’t’ hold my hand

naked without gloves.

 

Fingers crawled inside

your coat  searching  .

 

You pushed them

as if batting flies

off a dead body.

 

Your coat hangs

over my drooping shoulders.

surrounded by winds.

 

I pick at lint

left behind.

 

 



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