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I cannot hear the wind's shuffle of leaves, the warblers' return from balmy exile, the flute of thrush's evening song assuaging. These ears, these ruined things, these rotting porches. I can never hear again a woman's shy declarative sentence: I want you, her lips' warp to soft lobe, her bare foot swooshing up my thigh, her affirmative moans intensifying with each touch more right, more tender, yes, netting a sheath of tenderness: then palpating strokes, fingernails clasping: gasp, tongues lost to their winds. Diminuendo, lull, a finger swept from lips down slope of murmuring neck. Murmur of neck.... Once I could hear this. Once, these nest-building wrens sang me a song.
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Author:Swift, Doug
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Mar 1, 1993
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