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Winter 1986
Nate Thomas

Rounding out your every curve,
my hand—
winter-dry
and static sparking
beneath your woolen sweater,
surprised to find flesh soft-yielding
without resistance—
my first tangible proof that we are
indeed two separate beings
colliding soundlessly in space.

Afterward,
flavored lip-gloss
and widely through your
back door yawning—
into the cricketless night.

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