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  • His arm lays over me,
    he smells good tonight
    and the crickets sing outside the window
    as the moon plays
    ancient shadow games.

    Then the nudging,
    the old familiar stir
    and I am called to say
    what I am called to say.

    I gently withdraw
    from the pleasure of warm flesh,
    grope my way to brighter Light
    and pour the wine of fevered thought
    as one half crazed with thirst.
    Exhausted, each drop spent,
    I make my way back to this
    human cradle laying,
    but he is snoring,
    turned away.

    The poet's fee is paid.





    (photo credit: Christian Travers, flickr commons)
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