Wallowing, a strange sadness,
shaking under a passed over
gaze of you.
“Tender butcher,”
I cried
for the closeness,
coming near to seeing
poetry in the curve of your jaw-line,
wild hair and tired eyes,
held still in soft flickering darkness.
Time folding backward like a closed fan,
I was foolish to pretend
a future all from one
slow burn.
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