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After an oil by Antonio Mancini
by Michael Escoubas

You seem content
in the half-dim light of morning
covered only by your tousled bedsheet.

The table lamp
has not been lit since someone, (the man
you loved in the night?), extinguished it.

Your rose-colored
cheeks, a vision of contentment,
sing with the oncoming day that which

no words can say.
It seems enough to languish in
sweet memories of night and bedsheets.


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