Poetry
Rendezvous in Providence
Perhaps the gods are like us:
a couple breathless on a narrow bed.
They speak in low voices,
watching a fly cross the ceiling.
The self they lost comes back
on the breeze from a rickety fan.
A clock strikes. One touches
the other gently on the wrist.
As they undressed each other
now they dress themselves.
in deep silence, and leave us
alone with this clock and mirror,
this love, this fear, these white hairs
tangled in a single comb.
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