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For An Afternoon

your fingers
shadowed on the grass
the soft
sound of the leaves
rushing
in a pass of breath
as it begins
to rain

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fingersshadowgrassrain

For An Evening

the window is open
to the sound
of the water
sighing

the light
from the waning
moon
speaks softly
to the corner table

you left
a glass by
the kitchen sink
pale pink tracing
the line
where your lips
had been

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kitchen sink lips glass

Coin 38

the sky was a flat metal 
he could smell the dusky 
smell of a coat discarded, 
damp and full of dust, 
on a bench as he passed. 
and, even now, as 
the wind pulled the hands 
of his scarf around 
in frantic circles 
he thought of the quick flick 
of her hand as she tossed 
a cigarette, half-burned and 
orange with inward fire 
onto the sidewalk

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scarf

Morning Glory

there's a silence
in the hours
of the first stirring
between the breaking
of light through
brittle air
and the pale stretch
of shadow

you traced your own line
where the light dips
and pools in the hollow
of my collarbone
with the narrow tip
of a finger
i take a page
pure in the first fold
and open receptive

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silence

Coin 45

these dandelions come too late
i've already forgotten
our timid hands
the quiet rustle
of young leaves
the sun nodding
through branches
creating shadow
upon shadow
on the hiding grass

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grass

Outside

soft heels answer
on the sidewalk
i watch the lines
of her hips move
against the shadowed
fabric of her skirt
there's not enough
distance in the brittle
push of early autumn
it shifts the naked
rest of browning leaves
and loves no one

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skirt

Figment 2

she is beautiful
he tells
the shifting breath
of the open curtain

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breath shifting

Girl Leaving a Bar

the wind picked pace
she could feel the sound
of the music, very
distant now
he was telling her
about his sister
fingers sliding
through her hair
like water
saying, "You remind me,"
"You remind me."

it was too early
for spring
bare branches
stir with a sudden
turn of crooked fingers
as a car passes,
shedding light
on broken glass

last night she dreamed
of lions

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lions

Coin 37

there's a difference
between the shape
of your hand clutched
around the base
of your tall glass
and the way
the light through the window
falls beside your feet
as thin and as innocent
as spilled milk

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glass milk

After Death

your hand rests
on the edge
of the kitchen table
there is no
silence here
only the light fading
like the slow
leaking of breath

an apple sits
on the counter
soft lines curving
into the white
shadow of the wall
we take the curtain
turning like a page
in restless sleep
and the sound
of the rain
murmurs cold against
the window

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applebreathcurtainsdeathslow

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