It is dark all around.
Two tired people fill a bed

with one body. Four legs,
sleepy snakes, warm each other.

The heat emanates, returns, grows.
Its birthplace is impossible to locate.

Fingers burrow in hair.
A fingerprint, residue of identification,

oozes from the tips,
seeps into the mass of strands.

It is only visible
coated in ink, color draped on form.
Still, this mark of the body

never dries, no matter
how tired the night, the people,

the skin gives forever
its fingerprint, unseen,
a ghost of its own reflection.

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Free Williamsburg | 93 Berry Street | Brooklyn, NY 11211
[email protected] | August 2000 | Volume 6