My habit was to duchess the clothesline: 
empty sleeves in the wind’s gentle harness.  
An only child weighing one form of loneliness 
against another. Walking between buildings 
there was sometimes a feeling of floating up— 
piano music from an open window. Given milk 
with a little coffee mixed in, given a rosary 
by mistake; I felt closer to God in Canada, 
maybe because of the lake. My grandmother 
took me to Zeller’s and bought me a nightgown 
with lace. Everyone is so tired. I have never 
understood it. Canoeing to the island I lost 
a tooth. You’re a big kid now, the cousins 
scolded, and snag went my tongue on the space. 
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