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61.  Prisoner Exchange

Our footfall syncopates
With military precision,
Fingers unintentionally interlace.
Guided by your hand,
I close my eyes
The exact poem of your voice
In case, some winter day
I cannot find it
In the echoey rooms
That smell like fresh paint
And feel like fractured glass.
I study
Your unapologetically perfect face
Aglow in the broken egg sunset
Adrift in the cool sugar sand.
The Gulf of Mexico
Is foaming at the mouth
To finger your slow motion bronze flesh.
Unflinchingly, I love you
In a forever sort of way,
If only for today.

poetry & photos © 2006 Rebecca Lu Kiernan

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