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Hands shoved deep into his pockets

She thought, “They belong in my hair”

Shoved deep in his pockets.
(It’s the question of ownership…
With hands shoved deep in pockets
He owns himself)
Thursday last
he stood above the bed
rapturous and disbelieving

Knowing this couldn’t be
Good.
Enough.
And she heard him thinking
As he was losing himself “This is a Trick.”
Two, much life
She wanted their specific belonging

His hands on the back of her hips
pulling her solid
Lips on lips on Breasts
Pulling open her thighs

To make more love with his hands
which you can’t do with your hands shoved in your pockets
she heard him thinking, I know I am
right.
Justice— is my hands in my pockets

Peace…Quiet…
He said, (as she didn’t scream and he didn’t flee)
that nothing had changed.
And she realized those words were rising
To join the fall leaves, float away and decompose.


As the wind moved a crossed a clouded autumn moon.
From the southwest
On a night almost like Missouri
A beautiful night.

                                            2018 © Moe Russ 

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