Sins
anemone tentacles
on the throat of a dove,
or threads unwinding
from a beggar’s coat,
they barely bind,
hints of jail or guilt,
a trace that won’t sleep.
adulterous silence.
when it’s dark enough,
they chant, soft as dew,
patterns in clammy octaves.
the wards of skeleton keys.
an armoire opens. who guessed?
grandparents pine there,
their frowns turn thumbscrews.
hands secretive as moths.
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