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POETRY / In Which I Compare a Salesman to the Roads I Did Not Travel / Beth Gordon

he met me at a clam bake, barefoot and howling at the moon on the gulf coast 
in the summer of ‘82 and has never forgotten my hand on the bottle of raspberry  

wine or the way I disguised my lust with tragedy, my tears sparkling like beacons
every time I walked into the bay, and I told him that his ice was melting