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Saturday, August 1, 2009


If I opened the door, would I
see them there; draped, one after
the other, over thin wire?

Would there be crisp pleats, pressed
in the soft brushed cotton, that fall
like a plumb line from hip to floor?

Would they all be the color of sand, to blend
you into the background of life’s canvas;
only to be contrasted by the backside of a cow?

Do they gently caress your legs
and hug your waist; like your lovers hands
do you own the feel and comfort of them?

Do you ever pour into the color red, in
your dreams? And would you be cheating,
to don the color blue, or burgundy


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