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Post by Dunstan Attard on Jun 12, 2007 23:40:13 GMT -5
last year when we were happy in the chestnuts you sat on the porch fresh as a young wife eating my shoulderblades; fingering the sand with the subtle touch of ice
remember how we kissed the drink of shared confidences among the cunning palms of our sea-drenched hands that shimmered piano notes in the image of night
where were we going?
this year, happier in the bread, we may lie undisturbed on the bed of our circumstance not feeling the need to convince the sun of our love made of limping butterflies and antiseptic fingers
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