Copyright © 2009 Ernest Bloom.
Tell me of your fingers each, my love, tell me
one by one:
Ten short and perfect poems transmitted
day by lonely day.
Tell me of your toes, each tiny
nail precisely done;
Only then I might discern light infusing
these gloomy skies of gray.
An epic curve as each hip mounts up,
then fatefully descends.
A full week, I entreat you, on the strokes
when you brush your hair.
Brings us already to twenty-nine, my favorite
of my uninspired friends.
But save for last your devouring eyes that
pursue me everywhere ‑‑
And next month I beg you start
the whole affair again.
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