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This Ochre Afternoon

W.R. Bornholdt

Is that your breath slipping

through the blinds? Or,

am I in this ochre afternoon confusing

a delicate breeze with a purring fan?

​

Might that be your hand,

Bending insistent flesh?

The oval pressure mark of a hand’s heel

tinges the last naked vestment.

​

Whose name will I call

when water pushes me to its sullen edge

and I dance on twitching lines?

​

Am I bound and blind to that

Last trembling obstruction?

If you dare, take my doubt and

set it on your lips.

If it falls, a moist blanket will cover it and

no one will know the better.

Wayne Bornholdt is a retired bookseller and poet who lives in West Michigan. He spends his days writing, exercising his dogs, playing tennis and trying to read the stacks of books in his office.
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