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April 5, 2013


I see it sleeping in my bed, its hair all about it.
I watch it kneeling to pick up its skin.
Suddenly so naked and aware of its art.
See it bend so agonizingly in the dim light.
As soft and fleeting as ash between the fingers.
Watch it smoke cigarettes out my window.
Drink tea on the sill with ankles crossed.
How perfect it looks sipping tea with the sun.
The grace of the nude with spun glass between its legs.
I see it sleeping in its bed, my arms all about it.
Shivering in my embrace like a lamb in the field.
See it forgive me my failures and stumble on words.
If you must thrust your fists against the post, let me sleep a little first.
See it painting itself and settling its scores.
I watch myself walking it home at night.
Watch myself hold its hand as a man holds an infant.
See it walking away on a Sunday morning.
Amongst the cobweb and footprints that litter the pavement.
I watch it like a ghost at a window.
A negative held against a bare bulb.
My head swims with vertigo and it doesn’t look back.


From → Poetry

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