Monday, October 13, 2014

In between

From hot, sweet breath to stutter'd gasps.  She shifts -
anon, I'll you see when I 'scape the lee -
as one from self-assured contentedness and lifts
the veil. Short shrift and vague indemnities

her indian imitations are. With her
I mourn the last and few; dry and musky
does not a pregnant month foretell, it's true.
This, the offering waved, we gain horizons.

At the scent a horse will wake and mosses
hold the granite fast.  Since the buyers leave
the basest traders flee and hinterlands
once bare are left to breathe.

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