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In The Shape Of



Making love on the mountain she
was too cold and I longed to be
a rock in the shape of a rock
if I couldn't be a man in the shape of love.
The crow flew; the crow saw; the crow knew.
These ants are not those ants,
these words are words I didn't have then,
but the cold wind that blew us apart blows still,
and still I feel it, and still I fight it,
relinquishing day by day more memories,
banishing the cherished, discarding every dream,
but never this one, never
the disregard of the rocks, never the crow,
never the cold denial of her pale, unloving skin.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.