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Last night I wanted you to stay,
so I gave a bit of me away.

This morning, only one regret;
would I always be a brandished breast?
a glimpse of stockinged thigh, outstretched?

Or could I cool it down a few degrees?
Long enough for you to see

that of all the ways I know to please,
my body is but one of these.
You obviously don't speak silence
or you would have heard me say

*Stay.
letting her warm the sheets
of yesterday's beds,
time and time
and time
again.
O useless sky – you disappoint,
brood mutely as I weep and curse;
you've had eternities to meditate, yet
I think of all the answers first.
Be reckless with your words to me;
incite, provoke, use words as lips
and teeth and hands and silk restraints.
Press them deep into my skin –
leave marks, leave late, and come again.
I'm not beautiful—

no scandalous, empyrean beauty;
not the beauty
of long legs and sleepless nights,
not transcendental, not diaphanous; 
no ambrosia, no absinthe;
no earthly Aphrodite
to crush your heart 
with slender hands.
No,

not the kind of beauty
that makes disciple 
out of man;

but

our secrets, they rhyme darkly
and your heart is beating sharply,
and tonight I'll make you love me
while I can.
without you, i am sans serif –
unfinished still, a half-etched glyph.
you are my pitch; i write for this –

each arc and shoulder loops and dips
towards the softest landing of your lips.
If time is a convincing illusion, then as I am writing this,
you are reading it; you are remembering me years after
we have spoken last, and I am noticing you for the first time.

I'm a young woman waking up in an apartment in Albany,
New York, realizing that I am finally broken enough to fix,
and an East Boston moppet in ***** pink overalls, riding
Big Wheels through the sprinklers with a boy named John Henry.

You're delivering newspapers on a cold New Hampshire morning.
I am falling asleep wondering if you could possibly love me.
You are saying that you do. You are stardust, and I am long gone.
The bitter self-awareness
Of the vicinity of death
Encompasses a trauma
In a shortness of the breath,
An intellectual shrinkage
Spans diminishment of time
In impending dissolution
Of this treasured life of mine.

But mortality is mine to face
A hymnal to my fears
In that acceptance breeds compassion
For the irrational disappears
A passionate observation
Paints great empathy for life,
A vividness of being,
Of consciousness run rife.

Beyond articulation,
Beyond the poets song
Lies the grail of self-possession
In a Byzantium throng
Where the veil of comprehension
Sails upon a placid sea
And the glorious-ness of living,
In bright light, descends on me.

M.
29 October 2019
@ Foxglove in the warm, Spring sunshine
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