a short poem i wrote on a postcard instead of a "wish you were here" because
she was, and all holiday postcards arrive after your return
vycar
small silences swell
edges of shadow and light
beneath the cherry tree
in early spring, in Longchêne
poetry murmurs
torture childish lips
more prone to kisses
than decision
butterflies fleck breasts
that neither rise nor fall,
pregnant breath
careless with passion
drowsy in sweet cut grass
blue eyes wide, lost a'dream in
clouds of Saint-Saëns music
revealing a perfect horizon.
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