The Stranger

The radix of our love was three. In lands of paradox
the past reflected future to the sea: Your face bent
like a crescent blade, shearing summer from our Fall.
The lusts of autumn blew the awestruck west
from shades of east released against your breast: I knew
the stranger’s scent, the streak of foreign oils, felt
the stranglehold of darkened hair, twisted out of time,
until your body dimmed against a cold wives’ haunt
of flames gone lame: I burn the unlived light alive.

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