Published May 31, 2015 by April Fox

He brings me books:

A biography of Elvis Costello;

a notebook from 1932, filled with careful script:

a schoolgirl’s notes on history;

Tom Perotta

and the like.

He sings to me when I can’t sleep,

tells me stories about bars and hidden tables

talks me safely toward the morning,

through the dark. 

He sits across from me

while I read and peel an orange,

an ordinary waking, but still I catch him watching

like I made the sun come up. 


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