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She ,like blue
,comes over a cuttlefish of
darker bedsheets &
fine crease Baltic sea,

to ease a month of round the
lips & philtrum. If the
gaze does fall, does
rise from the bottom of
cheap sparkling wine,

then atop a bit open
, easily marked & the sight of
Saheli crayon’d her thigh
spits dinner & remarks
the whole
month of September
to one over two.

If I forget one
moment a little caught
off -guard the emotion, then
it resounds

in eyes
& philtrum her
that purse

to finally against the pale
of our finest night,
fill smiles
& catch cold from winter’s open window.

A collection of writings, poems and stories by the anonymous author ~  contact

Ah, we’re an ungrateful race! When I look at my hand upon the window sill and think what pleasure I’ve had in it, how it’s touched silk and pottery and hot walls, laid itself flat upon wet grass or sun-baked, let the Atlantic spurt through its fingers, snapped blue bells and daffodils, plucked ripe plums, never for a second since I was born ceased to tell me of hot and cold, damp or dryness, I’m amazed that I should use this wonderful composition of flesh and nerve to write the abuse of life. Yet that’s what we do. Come to think of it, literature is the record of our discontent.
T H E   E V E N I N G   P A R T Y Virgina Woolf