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by Thomas F. Wylie

pajamas crumpled on the floor
blood lines blot green cotton
sticky and sore to the touch
patterned red-dark on purpled skin

was leather made for this?
buckled with brass
to beat an ass?

snow freely drifts
inching up the inside sill
wet and compactable
slamming at heat from the radiator
a cauldron of cold and hot
screaming at hearts
that never thaw

silent solo moans
rock back and forth
stab at the ugly

“That did not happen!”

prayers for spring
held and blocked
by hate seeds buried
in February’s tundra

swift strike and shout
mirror image and sound
eternal throughout

Copyright © 2012 by Thomas F. Wylie

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