It stays
where cuts trap light and fingers,
delicacy
all Georgian glitter-glass,
fragile
as the far distant ring of bells,
ting,
tang, tang, on Easter morning.
Still
full of your powder and puff,
your
perfume laced with the hollow air,
a
small urn in the bowl of my hands,
it
came to me of a home morning.
Dark
now, your roses with mine,
crisp
thin, crackle in the depth,
musky
and rich across my room,
pulse through every
memory’s morning.
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