He held her head, in between the shifting curtains
Her face slanting off the sun you couldn’t see the bruises
That curved around his fingertips whose
Prints were stained
Guilt, watched her hands rest on the sill, in the split wine, congealing.
Her husband made love to his imagination
The curve of his hands face down
In prickly sunlight, to her whose
Imagination was spent
Body, made love to his
Promises flaked and fled from word
Their lips brittley unopened
Under tilted roses whose
Petals were still shut
His eyes remained blind to her stare.
He clutched at her rather, tried to rub her bare of marks
Panic at the spreading spill
Chameleon in the shifting light whose
Lucidity illuminated only truth
Clarity, stung him.
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