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Tracy Rogers
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Untitled #7
And you kissed me
beneath marbled clouds
your eyes the deep azure
of the September sky
as the last of the summer heat
lingered on my skin
along with your breath
and the touch of your fingertips
The Bermuda grass cooled
beneath my bare shoulders
Auburn hair tangled
around your fingertips
But even then I knew
you would not stay,
could not stay
Your lips touched my collarbone
as you murmured empty words
of devotion and desire
and I lost myself
willingly surrendering
to the rapture of fantasy
and the loneliness of summer's end
Bedouin Soul
Sandia Crest rises, opaque and silent,
from the porcelain desert floor.
No headlights illuminate I-25
save the faint yellow beams of a decaying
Oldsmobile
and the luminescent crescent moon above -
both hurtling toward a distant shadowy
horizon
and the break of day.
I am alone with my Bedouin soul.
The desert sighs, gathers its thoughts…
and waits…
for the faintest apricot glow from the west
to signal that morning has come…
for the lavender and crimson of the dawn
sky.
I am waiting too…
waiting for the day to incinerate the night,
to irradiate the rusty plateaus
and the charcoal ribbon of highway
that meander beneath gelid peaks
Tracy M. Rogers is a poet, essayist, photographer and editor living in Fayetteville, Arkansas. She likes jazz music, crocheting and drinking green tea.
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