D Minor

by Rosanna Warren | January 27, 2010

Thirst drove them as if within each kiss
something escaped, something salty touched
their tongues, as if the kiss within remained
unquaffed, as if the melody
in Kreisleriana fled each felt-wrapped
wooden hammer-knock and floated
only in the ghostly hands reflected
in the keyboard cover’s up-tilted night As if
spring appeared not in petals by
day but in the stun of white
knock-out lilac scent at midnight, white
not seen but suffered and suffused So
they tasted and missed As in
the park, on the gravel path, a child’s
map for a treasure hunt flutters
where it was dropped, its
directions precisely recorded and unread,
the treasure untouched and ever out of reach

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