We speak our truths
to each other
apologizing
for how corny
they sound.
And then apologize
for our apologies,
because the truth
when spoken
face to face
is never corny.
The next morning,
I read Mary Oliver
on the couch
with the black cat
indulging me
and the orange one
looking out the window,
the street's gray slush,
the browning evergreens
on top of trash bags
and trash bags.
I wrote poems
about death once.
Now
I write poems
about life.
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