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Saturday
Morning
Saturday morning
After the moon
And I don’t know
What it was,
But I kept going back
To her eyes,
Was it a haunting
Longing loneliness
Or just naturally
Seductive,
And her lips,
Some say lips
Are clues
To the mystery
Of other places,
What traces they
Were leaving,
And her hair,
Flowing Godiva like
Out of sight
Over her left
Shoulder,
Made one think
Of night
On this
Saturday morning
After the moon.
Stephen Nesbitt ©
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