on the kitchen table
this time
when I exit
my bedroom
Sunday morning
and she's gone--
but I'm grateful.
Never again
will I see
the sailor tattoos
her old seaman
carved, marked
like claimed stake.
The blurred recollection
of her pulling back
the sheets
to find and thank
my sleeping face
seals the unsaid deal:
With a forked tongue
and a forehead kiss
we never would have made it.
The distance doesn't matter.
We use the same two moves.
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