The Red Hour

08/20/2009 § Leave a comment

Her portrait in the mirror
is imageless
as she paints her lips,
naked on a vanity stool
humming like a gramophone.

And he
on the bed wonders
how exquisite she was,
wonders how she was
so much the more
when he undressed her,
opened her,
and fell

inside of her,
how fuck
was the only syllable he knew,
how it rang so good to him,
it rang so good
to him, it rang
so good to him.

Now as she hooks
her plain white bra
he yawning thinks
how red that hour,
redder, much redder
than her painted lips
in the vanity mirror.

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