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On Monday morning she brought me tea
well-stirred, no hint of honey, but
the tang of gum smoked to my fingertips
as they drummed high country hoofbeats
in snowtime dreaming.

There are words, secret echoes,
that only a melting river knows.

I heard, leftwards, a breast open to
shadows. I have no eyes for tender glances,
coy silk bouncing from kindled wicks,
petals soft and insipid on the stoop. 

On Mondays I drink my tea
and stare directly into the sun.

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