The space behind a bookshelf is an aperture
Floor to ceiling concealing
a place to fold your salted secrets
Into old paper and leather and linen.
Kick up your creased black penny loafers
And play the album front to back
Green velvet melodies and brass intrusions.
Polished mahogany etched with agonies and lusts
The rings of champagne flutes and
water stains of rocks glasses The breaths caught in the throats
Catching dripping wax from candles
And sweetness from the apex of her stance.
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