April 18, 2008

fragment

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
Whose
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
Whose
Body, made love to his

Promises flaked and fled from word
Their lips brittley unopened
Under tilted roses whose
Petals were still shut
Just as
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
Whose
Clarity, stung him.


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