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Songs down low,
groan, a double bass
plays corner politics
with strings and bow;
its musical words wink
at something maybe
I don’t know—
I just play here,
a soul disarticulated,
flailing over a boring
script until you come along,
doe eyed, blinking touch
as smooth as palmolive--
salvation setting in, maybe.
But when you leave so hurriedly,
are gone so soon, life seems
impossible--nothing holds,
yet your ghost is beautiful,
white wraps slipping off
as you pass silently
under my door.
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