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In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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  1. …often there is no word/ for such intermissions./ …A homing— the way you cup/ the back of my head in your hand…

    INTERMISSION

    There is no word for such intermissions.
    A rendezvous at some theatre wing,

    a random counting of all the lost days
    when you travelled to parts unknown,

    a quick embrace, prolonged gazes heavy
    with unspoken desire. O, I know this

    was a homing—the way you cupped
    the back of my head in your hand—

    you are back, but you have not returned,
    so, love, while the curtains are down

    tilt my face toward the crack of light,
    find my hungry mouth, fill my empty

    arms before the final act opens, or even
    before they send in an old, tired clown.

    —Albert B. Casuga
    04-28-11

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