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Reading Between the Lines


While you were sleeping in the chair, perhaps

dreaming of an ageless character

from the unfinished novel in your lap,

the sunlight through the window lit your hair

surrounding your face in a brilliant halo.

Your wrinkles, like a trail of sparrow’s feet

left in the snow, were clear enough to follow

back to the promises of our first date.


The sunlight cast a final flash of color.

A shadow entered the room, began to rise,

seemed pulled up over your face like a cover,

blanketing your chin, your lips, your eyes.

The I, too, slept and dreamed of heroines

whose timeless faces I’ve forgotten since.


Michael T. Young



© 2001; originally printed in Rattapallax.
Reprinted by permission of the author.

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