Always at the door, or tapping
at the window, it calls:
“Please let me in.”
In kisses and poems,
where unheard words
write unsent letters,
it calls out to me,
from books
that fall off shelves,
opening at pages
where phrases stand
like a wink caught sideways
on Goya’s Dona Isabel
as she sways her hips
as if to say
“Come, play with me.”
It beckons from silences,
between n…
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