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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

Her chest rise rhythms my moonlit breath, while I recite each shadow, each

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

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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