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Letter #17

August 7, 2012

At dinner

it takes days to cross her face

her laughter flutters in my head

like a caged bird

and her fingertip resting lightly on the tablecloth

pins  my tongue down

What?

her words crumble-

syllables fall  through  her lashes

 

It’s late

and I’m drunk from the sound of her heels

on the sidewalk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

( some recent drawings)

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