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This Ochre Afternoon
W.R. Bornholdt
Is that your breath slipping
through the blinds? Or,
am I in this ochre afternoon confusing
a delicate breeze with a purring fan?
Might that be your hand,
Bending insistent flesh?
The oval pressure mark of a hand’s heel
tinges the last naked vestment.
Whose name will I call
when water pushes me to its sullen edge
and I dance on twitching lines?
Am I bound and blind to that
Last trembling obstruction?
If you dare, take my doubt and
set it on your lips.
If it falls, a moist blanket will cover it and
no one will know the better.
Wayne Bornholdt is a retired bookseller and poet who lives in West Michigan. He spends his days writing, exercising his dogs, playing tennis and trying to read the stacks of books in his office.
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