1963

To trudge back to a winter,
'coldest in the century' and
hug a dead girl
warm, to pass her
a scrunched up
paper singing the
songs of
her June thunderbird, to
toss
it into the crackling
fire and tell
her,
I am I am I
am


 all that you'd made up
'inside your head.'

For being to me everything
real.