growing things

Behold, the woman without her claws
lying on her undone hair
her clean-skinned thighs lie softly spread
her lover warms his sleeping there

Embraced in her his far soul simmers
sleep comes fast, before the dreams
tomorrow taps the window pane
and seeps into her body's seams

Through midnight slats of bamboo blinds
she smiles, her hands run down his face
the wandering-Jew on the window sill
wonders if he likes this place

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