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May 2017
Our house is
a black box.

We drape
every
window

but one, a pinhole
to capture the sun.

At night, our love
is as dark as ink.

Come morning,
we are nothing

but inverted images
fed by the same light.

You tell me to smile
and I braid your hair.

Upstairs, the children
develop like ghosts

in the corners
of their rooms.

We listen to records,
watching the black

discs spin beneath
a scrupulous needle

scrutinizing motes of dust
that settle into the grooves.

We could almost dance together,
but the couple at the window

will not move until
we come into focus.
Jonathan Witte
Written by
Jonathan Witte  East of Georgia Avenue
(East of Georgia Avenue)   
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