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Silence Exile and Crumpets
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Wednesday, October 17th, 2012

Time Event
They are a voice half-heard when half-awake
or reading. They are the echo in the street
of high heels in the distance, high-arched feet
that touch mine in the night and seem to take

up half an empty bed. I'm fever hot
with yearning. When I think of lovers dead,
soft skin stroke, witty words are in my head.
But when I think of these loves, they are not.

We never met. I know they don't exist.
Although I know how cotton sheets would drape
across their legs, or how they'd suck a grape
skinless, as forceful as the night we kissed.

I've held my muse's hand, felt our lips touch –
not mine, she's still warm flesh compared to such.
Words tumble to my page. The perfect line
your pencil draws, curve emphasizing lips.
This is the point of such relationships.
You make one sort of beauty, I make mine.

Whether your face or clothes or on the page
or in the workshop stitching, fixing heel
precise form follows function. I, though, steal
apparent calm from chaos, lust and rage

nailed down in pattern. I remember well
the slow calligraphy of perfect eyes.
Now all my art is finding the surprise
twist into couplet. It's the mirrors tell

when we succeed in all our several arts
design the mask that will reveal our hearts.

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