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A Morning Infusion Head in the warm valley of my pillow
I create a vision then draw her near
To exchange injunctions in tones too low
For attendant ghosts of my past to hear.
I wake, breathless, and discover my hand
Redundantly clutching my drawn-up knee,
The wanton grasp, denied all that was planned,
Transfers to a tool for stirring my tea.
Posted by S R Plant at 09:35