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After the Cyber Date
Erotic prayers are typed like tattoos
on her virtual skin. She clutches at this man;
prints his likeness over her tongue. His words
are as close as a bedtime story told to her flesh.
An ethereal fruit grows ripe, nearly tactile,
hung from dendrites where desires open.
They meet at the verge of a vision,
still conversing to distant screens.
Motel doors slam. Daylight bustles
through echoing corridors.
From each side of twin lamps,
they lay tongue-tied. Tangled sheets
their only eloquence.
Later, they flew apart, as bats will
when caught by a glaring sun.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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