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Uncanny
It’s uncanny
How
you come,
Unannounced,
The wheel above
Your naked left scapula
Spinning, drafting a light
Breath like breeze on my cheek,
And
you the one smelling sweetly
Of the gardens of Savannah,
Softly pulling pearls
Across my chest,
A feather touch,
How you come
It’s uncanny.
Stephen Nesbitt ©
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