If [sonnet]

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A disembodied voice was in my ear
with layered tones I never did expect
to come from her. Its sound was full, sincere,
with laughter there and always star-bedecked.

To dance upon those suns in playful praise
produced in me a joy I hadn’t known
for many moons of empty mournful days —
at last, my melancholy overthrown.

But while that fluted palette fills my mind
some other, lower, thought assails my smile
(becoming with our tryst now intertwined)
which will not with desire be reconciled:

If she were not now with somebody else
I’d gladly give to her all of myself.

© 2011, Alan Morrison

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