Youth positions a girl like Bardot
ass up, questioning if truly he loves
all of her. At twenty-two this charm
captivates his wit.
She squeals through wine by the case.
On her back he traces, an alternating game
of brush and linger until the plaster falls
from the ceiling below.
She is feral beneath so much cotton.
Moonlight. If day light was near
with a chance just to speak with him.
Food ceases to taste good alone.
There is no solace in sleeping alone.
There is a deadness that rises as she reclines
on the sofa to write a poem for him.
There is a joy in suffering so deeply.
-- Angela Brommel
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