By Toklas
Date: 25 April 2001
Bedtime Stories
He reads the tip of a finger,
a lip, a knee - she unravels
her tale in sheets strung diaphanous,
wound in intricacies of a thousand
lovers come and gone.
This meeting, counted up in emptied wine bottles
and broken glass, writes itself in cracked
mosaic: wholeness breaking and reforming
on pillow and stone. How they walk
hand-clasped among the fragments,
unaware of tigers.
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