A lilt of touch Hushed in afternoons of cream Belleek And lavender leaves, polished Windows, orphaned voices in the alley. Conversation falls from your lips Like orange peelings. This cracked glass, I said, Is not enchanting. You're beguiled by rumors of grace In every corner, the flush of wings On a shabby sill, promises kept In snug teapots, patches of shadow Mending the chairs And I don't know what to do With you but wait Between the light's last breath And the unbearable empty cup.
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Warren Wedin firstname.lastname@example.org