Hands held behind her back so that
tremmers could more easily ebb.  The
doctor spun in his chair and smiled,
the setting was a sham, the sun ever
rose and the clouds spilled sand.  That
timidity of youth in bashful shame of self
passed, smile hidden behind locks that
Pope had raped, a farcical endeavor,
my fingers could not weave her threads,
could not sow warmth around her neck
nor draw breath from her mouth and give
it to Venus’ hearth, a blazing fire of rags
with eroded seems old lovers had worn.
Health had been abubdabce, trees too,
long rooted and deluge dodged, safe
from tempest Time, avec les temps,
even needles wear dull and stethoscopes
miss the heart beat of lover’s finger tips.


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