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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.
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.