Dry Down Dream

Like a crooked hand frozen on a smooth grandfather face,
No movement in her eyes betrays the shallow hole in heart.
He rises, bones like worn wood under warn foot.
Skin like the dust in the amber afternoon glow through the window.
Speckled, creamy, dry, aloof.
She has autumn hair after a summer pulled too taut.
Brittle as the ruched sheets, hardly a whisper of linen.
In her aching chest are paper leaves that form the chambers of a rusted heart, Chinese lanterns of feeble blood.
Just a sigh through the thin glass, a breeze tickles the pane, longing for reaction.
A smile, even a blow.
Peeling paint, faded eyes, avoiding.
He rises off the bed from the lofty low class suite.
Porcelain sink with her tears, lingering, scarcely noticed last night,
His shaving foam, languorously flicked, a Rorschach test of paled promise.
Back to the telescope of golden, dry down dreams, musty, like the liquid sun in the attic across the street.
What should be young are faces drained by listless twine knotted too tight to remove.
The plateau, the filtered city music in the still aching afternoon.
A skeleton ring clenched on a skeleton hand.
She drifts away to summer as he stands.

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