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We search for symmetry
She searches for symmetry in my
I search for a flaw in her curves.
Some slight error which will attract
There are turquoise lines between
The crimson squares which make
up the irregular pattern on her
crumpled Shetland wool shape.  
My hand sits on the curve of her
Hip, so when her boot slips on the
Jagged moss I take her weight on
My arm and she regains her balance.

How often the looking-glass
Reflects exactly the opposite,
And the hip I touched is held
By another, one whose hand with
Parched nails would steal my
Prize. Look, the ring no longer
Reflects the sanctity of union,
She is somehow the free roaming
Spirit I pursued so long ago. And
Now clouds, greying clouds hide
The past from me. There was
something I had to discover, a
question I had to ask. You draw
this veil over my bleak reflection
till I no longer care, then with a
light switch, no more, nothing,
I am released.


◄ There are no dead.

Brittle Leaves. ►


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