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M

ESTRANGERS

ESTRANGERS

Why do we
never now commiserate with comedies,
forgive and fete our foolishness,
lace our clumsy-calls
with love?

Why do we
never now absently lay a languid hand
along a liquid inner thigh:
a below the table-top token
of post-prandial promise?

Why do we
never now play This Little Piggy
with gentle teeth and gentler tongue
on the lingering long
erotic route home?

Why do we
now allow a careless chasm
to creep twixt curled hands
when walking [not quite]
side by side?

Why do we
do what inconsequential things we do
when together is a mere
coincidence of place?

Why do we,
despite these lonely loveless things,
never think
"Why ‘we’?"    

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