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![]() El MarWhen she speaks of the brass moon, an Afghan Folding into the brown Andean Sea, When she speaks of the tides' oddly pungent Breath; when she closes her eyes, recalesced, Her breast heaving with remembrance again I see only the French soldier, murine Of feature, whose inscribed photo I have Found he's wan, unsmiling; else the mustard Skin around his eyes is pinched and a bit Surprised: Iago, or Jove, thighs wounded At Agincourt, now beginning to trace The scent of infection to his own chain Mail I see him when she breathes the sea, though The photograph is dog-eared and folded Twice. There is a matching crease across her Sister's chest, in the dainty wallet's most Coveted sleeve... his face is ruined now; Not the only desperate thing she cached, Surely, but the one I found when I moved The sagging bed to a window, freeing The far beige wall; all that is left of him Outside her mind and mine, breaking, dashing Into foam on rocks of my own device... But whist, for she speaks of the sea: of warmth, Its parched and naked kiss and savors the Lingering taste of salt within her mouth. ![]() |
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