Monday, July 11, 2016


They lay like wrinkled flowers in the cedar
Drawer, pastels and white, cool cotton wraps
Absorbing smells of bourbon--I would feed her
Musk-scented soul with all our evening naps
And gaze upon her breaking morning, drink
The milk of morning that we must forget--
Of all love's tragedy of time. I shrink
From every little death--I gently set
A cotton flower at her feet--she'll raise
The flower, smooth its petals out and hide
Behind those cool pastels--I love to gaze
Upon her every finger-stroke, abide
Within her flower bed, the cedar trees
Presenting me their scents upon the breeze.

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