the fingers that moved over white
matched each other’s end
notes rose from graphite shadows:
his, held in his hand
wrapped in a cloak of slicing page
he came out to pour
words about the far-off girl
echoing as if she heard
within my round silver thought
his nightly voice spins
tale wretched, tone worn
my brow knit with him
my reticent mouth clasps cigarettes
wearing nothing’s mask
the need to hold his sweet-shorn head
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