[still life with cups and plates] They faced absolution in the friction of skin and sweat intermingling, arms and legs entwined in mock battle, words, if any, later. Windows' cityscapes billow behind the spring curtains, their occasional breeze a release from the encroachment of spaces; closeness, an addiction alternately yearned for and cursed. Cups and plates stack like flesh, their yellow, red glazes' patterns practice approach and separation repeated endlessly on circular surfaces, travels broken by ignored contents. Outside, the shoulders of neighboring houses cast pastel colors, stucco cracks like wrinkles in beloved old faces, and overhead, sighs of airplanes still seeking safe ground. © Jonathan Bohrn (2004)
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