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The End of Nothing
by Lynn Cohen

That cool spring night
poetry played
music of long ago
You held me forbiddingly
kissed me in the foreshadows
of today’s pain

I know I knew you
in the glistening snow
the icy paths
among the Red Raiders
banging basketballs
espousing Kierkegaard and Sartre
“In our Time”
when “Church Going”
became a memory,
and I loved a priest-to-be
and a man who loved other men.
Now
how can something that never was
hurt so much?

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