The small rectangular window
let's me see this machine's wing.
Outside the sun is setting
red, like crying eyes.
I last saw you on the other
side of the world. The sun rose
from cold, windy eastern skies
yellow, like your hair.
The words you said are with me still.
The touch of lips to lips gone.
And you interred lie sleeping,
black, in ever night.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
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