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I write you, when I can't have you near me:  Sketch you out in hurried, flowing script on loose leaf paper

and the blank back pages of books,   Hotel bibles, especially. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you dream of a self portrait ?

What kind of tribute are you wishing for - what is the evidence you want to hold onto ?  

 

My gift to you is words; will always be words

A description of morning sunlight on your face 

the china white of your bare shoulders

the way your fingertips undo buttons as if they were locks

yours and mine  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you followed the path I've been traveling, you'd find yourself in each hotel room, 

affectionately rendered in vibrant prose, then tucked back in the drawer, 

 

 

 

 

 

 



all words in italics from beatrice

Pay tribute

to her worn black boots

which she keeps filled with

tea bags, scented petals

roses, blueberry and some

cinnamon

 

Pay tribute

to her torn leather coat

too large for her small

shoulders, missing buttons

bundled up at the sleeves

frail hands

 

Pay tribute

to her new velvet dress

some say it's deep wine

red, she leans towards purple

nowadays her features are

sharper

 

Pay tribute

to the shine of silver

dragons flying everywhere

fire, brimstone and courage

testimony of the kindest

heart

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