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From And in Here, the Menagerie, Templar Poetry, 2007


Buckled to your wrist that first evening,
I thought this strap would hold as long as time.

Your arm was support; I felt expensive;
I felt your pride in just having me there.

Then, I still spoke. Now I only ever tut, 
constantly, quietly and mostly to myself.

And your silence on the subject of me 
is like cold metal pressed on warm flesh.

Now cracks are gaping at the buckle's pin.
I could drop softly to the tarmac any day

and I might. And would you notice?
Comfort has worn your senses thin.

Sure you glance down at me when you need to,
but all you see is time passing –

I remember how you used to say, “look at her:
what a beauty,” and they’d watch my face light up.

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