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After a night stroll we go home and look at our computers
before we go to bed.

Soham Patel

Your hat mutes shine on a city when we are walking in winter. The streets—all ice. No one keeps up with us. We’ve come out at a pace all our own. Mostly quiet save our gait sounds. Our arms link and my hand goes into your coat pocket as if it were my own. Lip balm and a set of keys. Receipt from again the scone and coffee breakfast. I keep it for no reason other than the woman in the coffee shop handed it to me. Traded just for warm comfort swallow.

Our skin has a lingering of the summer oil and it is all due to the spill. Jet stream came again as a household name in the houses. As if heat could not be image for reminders—ice melting in Alaska or the capital of Louisiana is Baton Rouge and my cheeks redden with embarrassment before anger, again now for the cold and now for the anger and again now.

As if the song birds where only colorful after they had been fed. The goldfinches turned a neon color and yes of course it was as if they were glowing. And they say it was for science. On our way out we saw them—the glowing goldfinches, you would then say, how beautiful.

Or, in the pond, a gaggle of geese reflect in quack and feather. At my desk, a google’s million zeroes and ones glisten back against my face then I remember you are sleeping now.

Soham Patel

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