Caroline Gormley
At night the west is still gloaming with a darkness so large the porch turns red. Its voice I am finding unchanged: the same shirts folded. Creaks shift one room over. How that morning still exists, is a place we can visit. I see it: A calendar, the calendar hung by Caroline's hands.To keep love fresh, share a plum. This rough magic thread-count lost. What's a girl got to do for some luminous body. The subject shifts from one room over. Ah there, there. A hand-covered mouth I here abjure.
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