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The Target

Updated on November 12, 2012
Source

The Target (4/6/12)


Under the gun he was satisfied--

The smell of ruby blood

Cocked a joy in his peppered nose

With each step of his stolen

Arrogance.

He was a marksmen of women--

A damned fine one too.

There was no distance between him and his prey

When a man knows the nature

Of his ear

And this spackle of his eye

Gleaming of her trousers--

A woman's sky.


Lanterns leapt from a brilliant staid

Onto the pox of their cheeks

Now, ruddy from hard exchanges

Summoning a greater lust

Than hot cylinders in a craze--

We, each of us, procure a dominance

Of the senses when sense fails

And a lip contortion is like

A nanosecond's eternity--

None can escape the itch of gravity.


He is now with her as a leaf

Milks a dangerous conifer,

All save One doubt

Which shadows in their dark liason--

Windows are stuck because

Love can't see.


MFH (4/6/12)

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