Berkeley Springs in the Winter
No map, no trail
The cold seeps into us but we go on, the talk too precious to lose, like your breast.
It takes a while to find the park in this state park, the groomed lawn around the inn belongs to a golf course, not the West Virginia wilds.
Cross-legged and leaning against the headboard
Reading from the Tibetan Book of the Dead
You tell me to hold death lightly.
Seventeen years gone by, I on my coast, you on yours.
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