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This pressing of bodies:

sticky palms from where we held the counterweight to ourself; then lips,

lending each other breath and broad trunked chests,

heavy with the silence of evening song.

You enfold the Matryoshka-doll-me.

We are a duet, playing the night game

in the forgotten worlds between owl-time and breakfast.

We murmur each other’s names: dot-through-dot

and-dotted by the mmms of our notes.

 

A sharp clunk and my rattling head,

full of moths, fireflies and deadlines, wakes me.

Six-am dawn lays her fingers across the bones of your face.

Your feet, out, bare like dolphins against white linen waves.

I trip and fall.

You stir, grab and hold me into the nook,

the slotted jig, the saw of your neck; puck the air with your mouth.

I reach forwards, kiss, and curl up behind you

like a question mark of us.


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