Copyright 1994 Darren A. Lott
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To this, my last
I was born late.
My lover, however, stayed on schedule,
joined the world,
and died without me.
Many times as a child I caught glimpse of her
though she'd change her hair
or obscure her features with paint.
On leaving, she refused to hold herself intact,
denying the luxury of quiet worship
before a single giant redwood.
Three states to which her essence wandered:
Solid, Liquid, Gas.
I've felt the smoothness of her skin,
when sliding against cool sheets.
She beckons for this secret tryst, but only
when the time to leave for work has past.
Spread so thin, I find it difficult to leave
nor to gain a satisfaction with her presence.
Sometimes I confuse her with God.