first hot day of spring

wrapped in thin lace
of just-wakeful grace
before time sorts memories
by relevance

touching the ruched fabric
of a fitted sheet
tracing raised patterns
of satin chromosomes

my childhood home
and the scent of hot gravel
combine, pungent
like a punch to the nose

my spirit is running
barefoot, pure
where lilacs bloom in the alley
strangers to betrayal

i wonder if you taste outside on your lips
if the scent of wind clings to your hair
the passing cars sound like waves
just like every room you ever loved

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Unholy Imaginings Copyright © by Kat Karney. All Rights Reserved.

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