May 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Three
Christopher Cussat
Something, Perhaps About Love

The plainness of her face,
in her eyes,
grants me the inheritance of history
and the faithlessness of time.

There I only see tomorrow
in her moist parts.

Waiting on breath
and complex nuclei.

and we grope at the other's neck,
and we breathe like broken doves,
and we wash the sheets again.
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