Pressed Flowers

When  I     opened                                    her  cigar-charmed   

home   up,                         I                            felt her fragile,

fraying brown                                                head  brush be-

tween      my                                        finger while her body   

stayed pressed in            thought                    against an ode.       

Even as the stringy,                            straw    pieces  of  her    

fell  into my lap,                            I started  growing jealous

of how  her flaxen                                      body  perpetually

— devoutly caressed                                     Byron  ( as any

lover should, I                                  suppose)  and     how I

could have (with                 you             ) lived  like this too;

how a rusted  rose        would          kiss, and  how a sonnet

sways—  how it would       give               the same kisses in

return. And  you’d hear           me                      humming—

head pressed against                            an   atrium swelling

up with  the rhythm   of   this place       in the swollen nook.


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