Life With Horace

poetry & essays

Damselfly wings


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Reconciliation

I still wear it on my skin,
remembering touch, intensely green
as if emeralds had visited.
Every nerve end bathed in
the musk of an old perfume.
A hand there, and there,
the shape of his head
bent down to me. Walls
all twilight, music
tracing curves, the beat
of time slowed to gray,
wanting it endless.