She has butterscotch lips
that tremble in her sleep.
Summer nights I stare
at her breathing in shadows,
moonlight, warm wind,
curtains billowing -- is this
the woman I love?
Anyone I know?
I study the hollows
of her eyes, the luna moth
fluttering at her hallowed
breasts, her neck, the church bell
tolls, a freight train moans
from the valley. I have
prayed for this so long,
the honeyed air, melon
ripe, the gleanings,
again.
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