Granted Poem by Maxine Chernoff

Granted



A film is always like a book and not like a conversation.
— Christian Metz
As I saw your face nearing
my face, snow fell through
a keyhole and opened the door.
We went inside and watched
windows wax green and gold.
Spring, we decided, was more
oppressive than winter with
its alyssum and clover
and the sheer weight of life
crowding us off the page.
We stayed in bed for years
and took our cures patiently
from each other's cups.
We read Bleak House and
stored our money in socks.
Nothing opened as we did.

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