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B.Z. Niditch

Unconsummated dusk
when dirty flowers
expected to die
rest in sleeplessness
like stolen kisses
disarmed under
your windowsill
by early morning
and evaporated
in a water’s breath
turns everything
into bourbon
with consolation’s pity
drawn in words
of absence
recalling Truffaut
in adolesence
blinking your eyes
in art houses
circling shadows
waking the darkness.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.

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