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Her Hair, The Night, My Passion
by Mike McCoy
Around midnight she wears her hair like a fine dark madness
Curled round her pearled face, astray on a pillow placed at the edge of
moonlight
Her chest rise rhythms my moonlit breath, while I recite each shadow,
each
shape
Of face and breast, of thigh and arm, silk swell of stomach where my
left
hand rests
When she touches my hand I am compelled past all doubt to speak quietly
the
night
Speak clearly her light in my life as I know it without doubt
A passion begins to stir beyond my capacity for knowing
Though not beyond my capacity for feeling
Nor can it seem beyond my desire
To remain here, remain quiet
At the edge of moonlight
Fully alive
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