Sit close in a circle, made of plastic chairs
in the forest, in a while you will forget the names
just the smell of the stale air will remain
let the raindrops bang on your white coat
one you will donate to charity in a couple of months
let the rain delete your words, so you can find
new ones to fit in their places, for shinier events
let it take the grim details of where and how
he is the one who says, the one who instructs
and you receive on the other part
ticker tape poems and shards of memory
to convince you this winter will be warmer, somehow.
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