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Douglas W. GrayPoems |
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Aberdeen Rose
for Mary
Douglas W. Gray
Every seven years the skin
has been renewed...
You trail one's blood
in your hand,
a toddle that is
far from my genesis.
I assume the language
of your body,
vowels in a tunnel as we pass.
How much we differ
from an imprint of lips,
fingering contours...
Among the bells
of Union Street
autumn leaves today -
no silver, but the granite
that is me.
Tonight, were I to scrub,
something will not
wash away.
