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title
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Terence Paré


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Widow

She warms the sheets with restless feet as he
Had done a thousand times before. Varicose
Prayer, she rolls over against the wall
And clamps a salty pillow to her barren breast.

Enwombed and enwombing, a dry Sargasso Sea, she
Sniffs her searing flesh and the only other
Odor of scotch she sips and slips to sleep.

The last embers' whispers in the brimming ashtray
Echo the Dogwood's antique promise to return.