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Split Decisions


by Kurt Facknitz


My tepid anger seeps slow

like hot tar between my fingers;

The sun shakes the ice

off the surface of my eyes.


The winter settles

and the dawn is smoking,

colorless and open;

Her skin, speckled with stars,

taking refuge from the blackness.

Its softness tempts me kindly.


Many colored eyes move slow

between the mirror and my heart,

begging questions.

I offer no explanation.

None suffice to breed either my content or theirs.


I wait,

But I hear no wanting whisper.

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