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Thursday, July 14, 2005

Hotel Room Tuesday - poem

January, steeled to dark, presses on the glass
immense and outside.
Curtains wilt against it,
damp fingers in,
its grey touch on her face his lips their
exhaled breath mists a sheen that surfaces
the flowered walls,
peels them back
and clings where skin meets skin,
the borrowed bedclothes rucked
winding round their limbs,
binding, with a permanence unmatched outside these walls,
this room,
this every Tuesday afternoon
routine that slides them on its rusted tracks
to what?

Unspoken thoughts mock
locked in separate same-thinking minds
makes them cling
with fingers
printing flesh and this last memory of touch
to heart - mementoes for those mundane moments
stretched between the days of being
the days of not
and others there.

And January presses in

reminds them.

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