framed in doorways,
some looking mournful,
others glaring right through me;
and those in repose,
with the same downward cant
of the hips,
trapped in the motionless sea
of twisted sheets,
rumpled bedclothes,
some sneering,
others, with full lips,
always the curves,
every one of them
deadly, ready to take a man
and toss him over the embankment,
for crimes done,
or simply for fun;
short and tall,
dark and fair,
all in all,
they remain frozen there:
captured beneath my eyelids,
as I seek what is hidden,
unwritten, underscored,
as I stare, mesmerized;
this begins all,
and ends with a fall,
a stumble, a misstep,
and suddenly,
all that is left
are silhouettes.

December 11, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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