COMING AT AN END
The art of losing
isn't hard to master;
Nothing can ever
happen twice,
so far be it that
I should repine.
We slept and woke
entering the golden room together,
O how your fingers drowsed me!
Oh, scandal of the honey of twilights!
What a million filaments!
It was lovely then,
But it's lonely in the body;
The sheets grow
heavy as a lecher's kiss.
I am the blossom pressed in a book,
Speckled like a sky;
With the shadow of the moon
at my side, I search
for traces of wildlife
in the white snow.
One cannot
begin it too soon.
01 August 2008
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1 comment:
the blossom pressed in a book...nice.
Thinking of you Christina, though I don't see you nearly enough these days.
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