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Love Lines

It is only ascent, that crease through
the center of the right hand. It cuts
the life line clean in two: there is only
the before and the after, her taste
in his tired mouth like the steel
of an old machete. When he sleeps
he feels himself drift on the soft slope
of her collarbone. “Clavicle,” he thinks
upon waking, and it pierces him. It is
so simple, this conjoining, this unity,
bodies turned to thick green vine.
No winter, there is no winter, there is
never a winter, only a cleaving
so sudden as to be almost delicate.
Later, many shadowed years later,
her thighs, her teeth, her midnight eyes,
come to him like a sweet echo
he could hold in his fractured palm –