Supple Sunday

A supple Sunday touch:

Hot skin reconnaissance and

the time for miscellany;

Your soft-spoken nothings

are sweated sweet—

Your suppressed laughter

and the shadow of a smile

are pressed on lips atremble—

A patch of rough skin:

an abrasion of now—

The breath-brush about my ear stirs life and limb,

and confuses the silence of twenty years

without him

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