Primed with a pristine balm
of sweet welcome
and with a plumped-up cloud
below the undone hairs’ lash,
in an open code, her arms extended
read: “What is bound to happen
will be, as it should, above your head
just as above mine—
With nothing else to comprehend
except that love is a magician
and each touch—a potent spell.”
Just as every photon knows it when
it’s seen, and so does every woman,
and even if the eyes are those of a poet.
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