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The Temple of Many Hands by Christopher Locke < back  : index >   

A b s e n c e

--after Edward Hirsch

To know you are not
here, the house quiet
as dragonflies tick drowsy
against the glass door,
the sun a gray button
unpolished beneath a collage
of boiling clouds, the bedsprings
silent in their accusation
of silence, the walls heavy
with their love of weight,
and my own breath forgotten
in its slick tunnel of sighs,
I feel every molecule
between my fingers,
my toes, the slight chasm
of my front teeth, until I go
begging amongst the shadows,
the spice of you fragrant
in every room, jasmine tea
from hours ago, white porcelain
mugs cooling like bones
on the outdoor table, one
lick of honey unsucked
from the spoon, and a lone bee
trembling at the prospect, walking
the silver spine until a gush
of mandibles, sweetness, at last
knowing the secret of light.


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