GRAY
DRAPES
BY BRUCE TAYLOR
Gray drapes the shutterless room
when the sun goes beveling
the day we’d try to understand

even if we lived forever,
the moment we cling to
because it is our own.

The hand drawn more absently
towards pain, a flawless gesture,
floats or seems of itself no token.
Something goes on beyond the body,
that the body can believe,
the body knows itself, it fails.

Fear is the body’s, fool,
the mind alone would go
anywhere, do anything.

Longing too is of the body,
the shape a hand makes, letting go,
the mouth slack, lips parting slightly.
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