In Susan's canvas

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her bones chatter

down back alleys

grown grey in evenings.

Today, she appeared

like my specters and muse

whispering from Nice.

Those cobbled roads,

brown and cold,

rise into heights as one.

Her water colored bridge

crosses the Seine

along the walk.

In '75, I walked

in respite and rain

across her memory

and plan to stroll

leisurely into other

lines she's placed in mine.