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In this room, nothing's cured - there was no disease
Hold fixed your cold jacket
Retract your shoulders - you see?
Are you reminded of John's Glass Onion,
Did you want all this to be a dream
I remember, saw you twist a blade, saw you so fragile - don't see me.
This shade of red befits the flight of feeble power
That ownership exiting the room like a breath.
In this room savor this last, this time
The comfort of desire you know will outrun boredom
I know we'd like to see this as a murky subterfuge
But we're fools, you know, we're innocents
You know this ain't like a film.
This morning listlessness upholds that sense of power,
That ownership, unspoken, winds up like a toy.
In this room I'm aware of the hum of the water, the fridge,
The distant traffic
In this room, I count the crinkles in the sheets, the smudges on the mirror
Our metered breathing, riding above the dearth of words -
They fell, the fools, they lost connection
The preceded us...
This shade of red befits the flight of feeble power
That ownership exiting the room like a breath.
~ Brendan Bonsack 1995
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