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Sixty Minutes
By David Hunter Sutherland

Locks and tendons and yawing gaps
creep slipshod to a wedded plunge
of sentimental bliss and empathy.
Someone feels for you,
(hung and half reels for you)
over inviolate curves,
trapped between the walls
of hip and world,
the lower - upper strata fantasy.

Nature could dare steal back;
so sweet a thing could flourish,
seize all hope beyond recrimination.
Someone gives for you!
The illusion grandeur takes to you,
between sixty seconds
of sixty minutes
one could fall in love.

For the hour has sparse
left its minute dangling
past the moment
past the watch on your wrist,
another takes to you
at equidistant points
between porcelain and chin
over nacre smooth teeth
and haunting eyes.

One could collapse into rain
huddled over mud-slick earth,
over flesh and loving,
over uncensurable pain
rewound to a shower
of breath and lips
that plant an old crop,
tills a new field,
sews a new way.




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Document last modified on: 08/09/1997

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