I confess I am losing myself
in the gilt-edged light
and the fragility of the
small air we have allowed
to stir beneath our gloves.

The dust even…it shines
settling through the afternoon
on the vast parquet
and silk skirts.

I confess that the voices
in distant streets
grow fainter
behind the pale roses
I set before the old mirror.

I confess that the desire
to listen for them
washes away
with the hum of wine
and the small perfect tastes
held out to me.

Copyright Kay Winter

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