Monday, February 27, 2017



I gather lilies, set them on the bed
where you are absent. Gone.
Going up, going down, inside
a hotel elevator with a stranger
brushing his groin against your hand. 

Yes, stuck with another man
pushing his arm against your elbow. 
You slip away with him into a corridor
until you reach a door that he opens. 

You enter, let him take off your clothes,
while I wander about the house, looking
for you in the geometry of our bed,
with the fear of one who just arrived
to his first unrehearsed death. 

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