Gary McDowell Palindrome

On our backs planning envy.

The two of us in secret twice


every week, censoring

the good sense to fall


in love. How you dream your

religion, your midnight human,


but that I’m a part of how you

vowel, your tongue soft against


the roof of your mouth against

my fingers taken deep against.


This year, we keep winter,

meaning each other, company.


We aren’t up in the mountains.

But last night, the violence.


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