Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Curled


Curled



Soon my heart will stop,
and I will balance my affections
against a different feather.
You won’t anticipate the pain
that rocks me, my soles curled
like a sleeping infant’s.
I will gather the lilies and set
them on our bed, but you will be
missing, absent, gone; going up,
going down, with a stranger
brushing your arm in a hotel
elevator.  Yes, stuck with another
man cruising and brushing his
arm against your elbow.
And I will not be there to save
you from all the gossip.  You will
slip away with him into a corridor
until you reach a door that he will
open.  Then you will enter the room
and I will be missing.

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