Posts Tagged ‘dusting’

They are large, the breasts,
more than two handfuls’ worth.

I move the soft cloth over them
slowly, gently, though she is bronze

and does not require tenderness.
I give her tenderness. I touch her

the way I long to be touched,
unhurried, deliberate, leisurely.

Outside the window, the cottonwood trees
are as naked as she is. Last night,

I saw the full moon in their limbs
and my thoughts let fall all their leaves.

I want the full moon to linger on me
the way I linger now on the narrow stretch

of her body, putting a shine on every
inch. She is lovely, God, she is lovely,

with her head flung back and her
arm flung high, staring at the world

with her unchanging eyes.
Through the window, I watch

as no birds fly from tree to tree.
The emptiness between the limbs

is empty. My thoughts grow
faintly green.

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There is dust
all over the world,

sings the little girl.

She is brushing snow
away from the ice
at the edge

of the mostly frozen river.
Her song goes on:
And somewhere else

there is someone else
who is dusting.

And she sings and sings

and sweeps away
the white dusting
until beneath her

purple gloves
the frozen world

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