If I had known
love more as
an object and less
as the thinly-
disguised subject
of my life would I
not accept only the
work I set myself
and be a free face
gently gliding out
onto Southern Avenue
I can hear the birds
loudly protesting
the sun going down
the sky all tourmaline
and tragic
your eyes two garnets
in the darkness turning
to undress me.
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