I had a burst of writing a few weeks ago but then haven't written a poem now for about a month. Well, here's something brand-new. Treading Lightly Bright fabrics of varying degrees of stiffness are drying on wooden racks in your spare room, in the sun between yellow-orange curtains chosen by your housemate. I remember you love me when you leave me a clean towel on the doorknob, soft cotton from the electric dryer.
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