The Bird
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A breeze,
silken, warm
carrying the scent of roses
touches, caresses my cheek
you
a bed, swathed in gauze
moonlit, sheened with sweat
a caress
curtains flow in the breeze
roses, outside the window
growing, alive, but briefly
as our love
forgotten, discarded, a dying rose on my mantle

N. Aucoin July 18/95