Lost Language
L
Laurence Overmire
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In the Gaelic night of
Down, soft pillow sweet
Satin on the thigh…
Ancient words, floating through
Open windows, caressed
The making of our love,
Her lips playing
Music in fingers of moonlight.
Unable to understand, and yet
Not needing, I surrendered.
The slender curve of her hip
Gently enclosing the fear of my knowing
With a sigh.
~ Laurence Overmire
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