late in the season


waiting in a straight back, dining chair
pressed into service at the desk
not waiting for phone or door bell
or someone to finish something
waiting for my heart to become
less free form,
less painfully given or received back
more as one would expect
as if even at night, it pursues dominion
the way a lover pulls sateen blanket edges,
tugs over worn pillows,
nudges a little, thumps, rolls, nudges again –
as if, daylight divulges so much
that my heart refuses
to be seen at the dance

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