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Mar 13
Over the bed, a ceiling fan revolves
elliptically. The yellowed walls speak
of anxieties archived by the lungful.
From his fingers the snaking upward blue
smoke of burning tobacco describes tumult.
She has gone back into the world.Β Alone
in their aftermath he smokes like a figure
growing distant in a cinematic moment
emptied of heroism. The worn sheets rope
about his ankles and recall an  inmate’s noose.
She'd been inside. And for years. How she assumed
her role in the act, face to the wall, silent
as though taking a meal frankly, work-like.
It was a thing they laughed about. Her parting
glance was inscrutable. He drew deeply, and a ring
of orange fire bloomed, briefly proclaiming love
remained a chance. Who could know? The arhythmic
rocking of the fan beat the hot air back
onto him, the lone smoker, smoking blankly.
The curtains billowed into the parking lot
like some great tongue, wildly, mute. And under
the window, in the shadowless heat, a dog,
limp with thirst, laps at the drips that drip from a pipe.
a re-write and re-post. I've strived for meaningful enjambments and a sense of metre while attempting to sound contemporary
Paul
Written by
Paul  sydney
(sydney)   
2.0k
   Darrell Landstrom
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