BY DAVIDMURRAYLAW@GMAIL.COM

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Muse, Constantin Brancusi, 1912

 

I am not going to say anything
about the arch of your neck
and how it draws my fingers

nor about how your discourse
gives me an energy
that I had thought forsaken

neither will I confess
to wanting to kiss you deeply

I do this mindful of the risk
I run of losing a love not won

but even more of compromising a friendship


that is old of a decade
and yet as young as spring

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