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   a b s e n c e

--- C H R I S T O P H E R   L O C K E

--after Edward Hirsch

To know you are not

here, the house quiet

as dragonflies tick drowsy

against the glass door,

the sun a gray button

unpolished beneath a collage

of boiling clouds, the bedsprings

silent in their accusation

of silence, the walls heavy

with their love of weight,

and my own breath forgotten

in its slick tunnel of sighs,

I feel every molecule

between my fingers,

my toes, the slight chasm

of my front teeth, until I go

begging amongst the shadows,

the spice of you fragrant

in every room, jasmine tea

from hours ago, white porcelain

mugs cooling like bones

on the outdoor table, one

lick of honey unsucked

from the spoon, and a lone bee

trembling at the prospect, walking

the silver spine until a gush

of mandibles, sweetness, at last

knowing the secret of light.

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