Tuesday, November 20, 2012


What did this silhouette seek out and why?
                                         Marina Tsveteava

Your fingers press on my shoulders.
The bone tips. Smooth finials, you say,
inviting love or lust to perch.

Your gaze intense -- all lashes
long and down swept, waiting
to skim my flesh,

You are that young poet, stranger
drifting though the mist.

A shadow from her past affair,
an Autumn
I never burned
with leaves or letters freed
                         from their knotted string.

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