Her Cupped Hands

Leaned on the pane
are the outside edges
of her hands, pressed.

Light from without
dispelled at her will
to see inside of me

the dimmed refract
of loves shadow lens’
concave mystery.

Leaned on the pain
are the outside edges
of her hands, massaged.

Her light quartered
into the chambers
of constant flex

of cardio compulsion.
She feels the bleeding
coming in and going out.

For Barbara

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