by Lois P. Jones

Because a dove's coo
         always arrived like
         grey flecked skies outside

our bedroom that filtered through
         the crème drapes
and touched our brows.

Because the bottle man gathered empties–
         its tinkling music
         a comfort to our knees

against the sheets. If only we’d slept
beneath your Hungarian lids
         your abstract paintings

inventing a landscape where words were unnecessary.
         I pushed away the black wave
and tucked it behind your ear

         as Chaplain's City Lights flickered
         across the silence. Outside,
the clouds curious about one another

         passed each other by. Knowing.


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