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Apr 2018
Melted glass that bubbles, pops, and cracks
like a laugh, or the slide of shining skin
on porcelain in the bath — you rise and splash — 
you settle and relax, you sigh and glisten.

The smoothness of a thigh like pink petals:
fragrant silk just like the heart of a rose.

Grey moth-eyes of fluttering fog that falls,
fading into the night — why are you closed?

I should have known better. You should have known.

Even honey sours and petals drift
like snow. But there’s a place where love still grows,
row on row, a quiet garden. Be quick — 
before our hearts are hardened, we’ll go and find
the snoring bees, where time has conquered time.
Tom Conley
Written by
Tom Conley
  258
   Ben Hickman
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