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is bitter cold
this time of year.

night times
we can't leave the

the mere
mention of dawn
being near
makes me tired.

shovel another 
shovel full
of peat into the fire.

A more beautiful girl 
Sligo never saw. 

There, at the 
rectory window,
she brushes her hair

and stares silent as
the drizzle roils 
over the moor,

mist melting to
solid stone.

I admire
from afar.

Frost clings 
to the leaded pane,
but not 
the hearth-heated heart.

Warm your bones
for an hour,
let me pour you another
whiskey sour.

I keep my desire
inside a jar 
beneath the stairs.

That closet 
holds my hopes,

so close the door
against the cold.

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