At first
a selfish thing,
a secret indulgence
like a child hiding
under stairs,
gorging on chocolate,
the floor creaking overhead.
After time,
an honest theft--
stolen voices
made one's own,
words that haunt or anger,
humanity consumed,
fallen, aroused.
Now
evidence of our fortunate frailty:
wild strawberries
lush in thorny fields;
a ticket home
the chilling wind
blows against the thinnest jacket;
frank words
between the loving
man and wife
who forgive
and cling
and fall asleep.
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