his bed is an 18-page chapbook
split at the middle–
she slips into the binding
the heels of her feet
still have winter written on them
skin cracks: a white map of where she's been
he draws her smiles
like a bath,
even if she appears serious in sleep
she leaves without
saying goodbye
no note and never the expected reply
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Poetry without gesticulation.
1 comment:
can u send me or post the picture of me under the little chair?
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