black river

mostly, i’m ignoring my hand inside
his hand. such composure, i felt
at least like the mona sphynx.

his concerning,
his yearning,
for a simpler done times
when he’d mellow
in the meadow, by the
black river pines.

mostly. the compressed hand between
his own. such affection, in
pats, like butter on toast.

 

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