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Anchors in Erratic SoilTo Janet Buck's next piece

White Cuff

The rain fell like little nails,
a noisy tap that made alone
more musical and wild.
"Define an island," he said,
wishing she'd think of Donne,
circle his waist, press meaning 
into a simple move.
The mattress held hints
of all her former service calls
to wandering lust -- to loins on fire 
with making a basic flame
in a cold and lightless world.
They touched her,
but never reached in.
"Pretend," she said, "you're 
a dying man milking the final act;
the simpering moon is a white cuff
on a blue sleeve and the shirt
is the ending of all spun silk."

Spreading the V of two thighs,
she pondered the hats of palms.
Suspended at least a hundred
feet above herself
in a hammock of woven lace.
The dusty nightstand,
a desert of tenable wood
where wedding rings sat
for fractions of hours,
then reassumed positioning
even when knuckles 
were plugging a lie.
Back to his body
that begged for a seed
like chattering birds.
A finger, a plectrum
roaming the old guitar.
Maybe a song still lived,
a gegenschein locked 
in the stone tower of time. 

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