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A Poem: For Love of the Night 

When the night feels, it feels first
the setting of the sun; it feels first vulnerable.
Night, lost lover. She watches the moon and pines
for the flesh of dawn,
for the tumbling of heat-
the crashing photons of sun to the cool earth, like
the passionate crashing of bones to passionate meat, the friction of abrading souls.

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Speaking of Poetry

  • A poem by Michael Timothy Rose.

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