Steven Campbell

Of light and music . . .

It is late autumn and
darkness is still strange
at this hour.
A distant train moans
through the open window
like a forgotten lover
as the fan spans the width
of their room.
She lies naked
covered only by notes and
a corner of a shabby quilt.
He watches the purple and sienna light
of candles climb her spine
and fall into shadows
around her shoulders
from the ragged recliner
across the room.
He thinks of waking her
but he will only watch
as her breast rise and fall 
gently to the sound of the music.


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N. Harter