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ISSUE:  Autumn 1995
pouring like a dark-red wine
its lushness is almost sexual,
the lover’s voice hushed
and warm within the ear, that tuft
of black hair between her thighs,

enough luxury to lose ourselves forever
in reveries of realms and sovereignty,
the snow-covered fields at dusk,
a haystack set afire by peasant workers
trying to stay warm. But it’s velvet
that pervades the night, evening air
you can feel against your skin,
and the clamor of sabers and pitchforks
can’t be heard over the acres of silence.
The bolts of fine velvet unrolling,
the inconsolable and sweet cries of desire
all die away, muffled in those deep folds,
the capes and robes of emperors and queens
where even a splattering of blood
won’t show in such soft darkness.


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