This Poem was Submitted By: Annie M Yates On Date: 2001-05-18 12:30:40 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Through Glass

It's Sunday afternoon and somewhere in that pestilent legion between breath and bone, I thunder out in beats the time it takes you to pour a drink, to turn a page you, on the stone patio elbow deep in the Times as I scrape away the remains of our late morning meal Now in my easy chair,  slung back like a shoulder, I see with clarity what we've become    watching you through the glass door my reflection on your body...the illusion of my eyes on your cheek,  of your arm on my breast simply becoming one person, silently thumbing a newspaper, and a gray diamond in our palm

Copyright © May 2001 Annie M Yates


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