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by Trisha De Gracia

In the still grey that lies between
your aching lips I wait
huddled behind your teeth
furled upon your tongue
like wren-wings new
and fresh
and wet

Poised, I lay-
a still un-born

dead until you call my name again.


Posted on 07/25/2007
Copyright © 2024 Trisha De Gracia

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