Epilogue These storm winds run together when he loves me sweetly. Our bare lives sing with the mad moon. Summer is not smooth, I learned some bumpy night when we crashed instead of converged. The moon was a sliver of his former glow, glared instead of igniting, revealing where the hook in eye fit, where his hands were too calloused, when my eyes were open too long. Our knees bumped and knocked, not intertwined. When we broke, I heard the wolf howl. Maggie Nixon
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