Yet you are dead forever now, but now and then
at my door looking, against the glass windows. Our eyes bow,
leaning into that tender steep, silence itself tapping time. When
waiting for some small reply, I ask how.
“Because your eyes are brown, even in the dark,”
you answer with your own, a smile under your downturned mustache.
I have caught your kiss in my left cheek’s arc,
under the pale apple of its amplitude, unabashed.
The sun will peek at you through my curls,
but you are dead forever, and now arrogance’s
untended flame, a blue ribbon, unfurls
against the black pupil of your right eye, glances
against my heart, unarmed except for a shovel
with which it tills my eyes and plants the next revel.
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