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The Inn at Chico

Bozeman, 1980
for Patrice

One lone pigeon white
Under the rafters’ eve
A mistaken dove

Two beds and a sink
A braille of crocheted curtains
And wind-darned rainfall

Your olive skin is the
Moistened context
Of fleeting exteriors

Our morning laughter like
Shards of light in chiaroscuro
The Inn at Chico

Letting you
For now
I felt my throat