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A weekly video reading of poetry by the poet.

Turquoise eyes
red-blond hair
alabaster skin
laced with freckles.
His heart
was not as tender
as his skin
nor strong as his desires.

I remember kissing
every freckle on his back,
as if to cleave them
to my lips.

I slept naked
the night I heard
that he had died,
as if movement
of  bedclothes against my body
would affirm that I am still alive.

January, 1998

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