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Song of Songs


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Song of Songs


Tonight your blue blanket slips

the edges of your presentation

covers all we needed to see

and more.

And when he pulls the curtains shut

on this, your bridal bed,

will you still wait for your cue--

the soundless applause of angels--

before he lays you down to sleep

prey, keep it in, don't lose this...


Tonight there's something odd

about the way his hair gleams,

the strangeness of his skin and

the movement of his limbs.

Something fluid and shifting

and notquiteright and if you could just see

but the curtain is down,

is dropped, is shut and shuttered and


shuddered in sleep that is like half-awake.

And when he settles around your stomach

coiled and content and cruel as moonlight,

what will you say

with his blue blanket in your mouth?

What will you say?


Comfort me with apples,

for I am sick of love.

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