“Witching Hour”

I watch him,

him and his terrible hands,

a plight.

It’s late hour,

too early for intimacy.

The breaklight’s long gone,

glory searching,

for a copyright.

I recognize her,

her and her devilish thighs,

a question.

It’s early,

too late for casual conversation.

Shoes on the sofa,

hearts lying on the stove.

Everything is alive.

 

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