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              From an Opened Window
              By Willie James King

              From an opened window,
              and wind-shifting curtains,
              a woman watches a man
              at work, shirtless, muscles
              lengthening, tightening like
              leather, the color of copper
              where beads of sweat limns
              his sunlit skin, like a fused
              flux of emeralds, enamored
              sequins aglow on the body
              of a newly-shed snake.

              She hears the hiss of his
              shears as they shave a row
              of hedge he is trying to trim
              to the same height; he's hired
              help, she doesn't even know
              his name, nor does she care
              to learn it, She'd never call it,
              this decent lady who would
              be known as nothing less.

              No matter, she's captured
              by his chest, the only part
              she is able to see from
              the lilt and turn of the trunk
              of his narrow waist. But
              that is all she needs to see
              while she wonders to herself
              what it would be like if they
              were alone, coupling beneath

              the canopy of a huge bed
              she hates sharing with the husband
              she has known too long
              now, who's not hers; scent
              of apples from a nearby
              orchard fragrances
              the air, and she pretends
              it is their scents, mingling
              as she turns britches she's
              ironing, wishing she
              had washed for him to wear.




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Document last modified on: 04/02/2006

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