Nothing really shines but this: I have loved you/ eight presidents.

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Eight Presidents
Allan Peterson
October five. Seven years older in dog years and then your November
the day record snowfalls hit Randolph New Hampshire in forty-three
and I am thinking of something intimate and impossible to waste:
Brazil’s undiscovered caverns of amethyst     endless smooth oval stones
along Washington’s moody Pacific chewing a continent. But I am wrong.
(poetry diary  183 -2/20/17 – Happy Presidents’ Day! I have loved my husband 3 presidents so far.)

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