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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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