A.J. Huffman

Alone.  But Comforted.

You lay in a pile of billowing cotton.  Sainted
white piled and pulled up over your head.  I struggle
to find my place inside this scene.  Orchestrating
a bare-assed dig.  I twist and turn.  Contorting
my body into a shadow-shape.  Echoing you,
I settle into the background.  Not quite conformed.
(Not quite confirmed.)  But balanced
enough that I just might pass as a puzzle[d?] piece
of this night’s moonless dream.

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