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The working of a tongue
on flesh, the certain

color of seven o’clock
and silence on the Gaziemir

road. She straddles him;
he reaches for the pink

blanket, the word to say
I’ve waited for this morning,

this downturned mouth,
this hair. The coffee’s

been made, four eggs wait
with sausage and salt.

He pivots for her thighs,
the swell of breast

that becomes the arduous
way of nightshade

and granite. He is lost
because she breathes

so simply, the fall of skin
and lotion from other days,

other men who’ve gone
into the cold for bread.

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