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Untitled (A Sonnet)

Rob Harris

You always hated it when I spoke French;

You, with brittle diction, put down in hand,

Smote my present tenses. Each absent clench

Of lips as transient as holding sand.

Even now your parting words trickle past,

Tidal in their echoes, abruptly rung

From saturated nights, and drying fast

From this desert distance. The softly swung

Trails of words lie dormant, iambs prowling

In counterpart to our sleeplessness shared.

Fathoms deeper into us, no howling

Intimacy surfaced – I never dared

To make this Untitled Us as opaque

As you deserved, and so, aching, we break.



Dan Keir

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