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

O p e n

The drapes let down
like milk, silencing
noon’s bright accusation.
And then you come
to me, blouse spread
like promise, like
a memory of thirst
I’ve forgotten. Heat
fills my mouth, pulls
your great tide of breath,
until that which is swollen
unlocks the watering tongue.


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