![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibZ3Z3YPNw92bjx2epB0QCgTNeeocN0jz75GypqmrY6pXGayuxe8OOr-95YOiuN1ue54FIYXu7NdwywbpqE3w_wfzjqvhN7G_iTENFdC7_l4T-tDG2y3VQ8WuJiATUs-_uNpaGkQd5T0Pf/s320/devie508.gif)
There is a rose on the table
The bedsheets warmed from a sunny window
I lay with one knee raised
My skin is lonely
That golden-handled door we taught to open
(while we were kissing, Love,
while your thigh won the wet from me)
Has taught itself to close.
A bird sings in the garden
He knows nothing
Or everything
He sings like a perfect fool
For me.
There is a rose on the table
The bedsheets warmed from a sunny window
My breasts are lonely
My hands are lost children
Far from home
I lay on my back, as if you might rejoin me;
I study the stucco walls and the ceiling,
Here in this lonely warm bed
Near my lovely rose,
That traitor door,
And the singing of that lonesome
Idiot
Bird.
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