A poem about life and death
David Weisman
Cyrill Palacious
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Read the poem
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Overcast was the climate.
Uncolored was the day.
She is leaning on the headstone.
The markers of memories.
The single rose spins, nauseously.
In the month of Shivat
her face is tawny.
I am assuming
that she senses my presence.
But assumption has not a spine,
nor a structure. Along with the cemetery
breeze; is a stowaway, a very interesting -
- intruder.
Compelling the lilac.
Divorcing the snapdragon.
The slit of her dress is long.
Her leg is pulling at the hazel of my eyes.
The rough of my tongue,
on the smooth of her thigh.
To make my approach is all that's left.
Finishing this conversation
should make things right.
Here I am now.
In front of them both.
The stone is nameless,
in this high-grass.
Her knees can't buckle,
and I am being withheld,
Incommunicado.
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