Thursday, September 27, 2007

At 39 Weeks

These days

are tied down


by print and paper

or they stay


firm, ripe plum,


Still your hands

seem webs or nests


that are home

And i miss twisting

around you like flame,

making you disappear

inch by inch,

sweetly, in sweat:

while your touch

like twilight, smudges

me purple-tinged.


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