They built a home along the scented shore
a window west for him and east for her,
gravelled the way with parts of broken clocks
collected over the suspended mornings,
and as a gust blows on the windbreak now
they let the rugged murmur of the leaves
do the talking, the roads onto the distance
spring over the green like fishing lines.

The sleepless eve begets the morning sun,
she holds her pregnant belly to the light;
the day equally young wavers, the hour
is tired already from a long regard.
There is a different exhaustion in
her memory, when the gymnastic flesh
unlimited would fly but by her sweat,
and medals looked like of a wider gold.

The mountain reigns about its rusty axis,
the whole valley rests gently to the sea.
The sunset is the fastest. On a whim
she would cross the bedroom, the warm embrace
would bring the swelter back, the bodies both
rendered elementary on the bed,
will doze some rest out of the barren day,
for the fallen princess to brave the night.

The End

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