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Tuesday Night


The ghost in my mouth holds me close
             to his fondness, to his waiting,
he has my eyes, my sea legs, my fractions
and interest in mind.
                         I raise a little lantern

to his observance and grow a little older.
I rinse my face for launch
like victory against the blinds. But my face is returned

wherever I look. I look at the moon and my mouth
is all hooves. I can barely say what had me holding my breath.
Maybe nothing will come of this. Where now,

my little light? Forests thicken. Foot rests. Chicken.
                   You are all in my feelings.
                                                           Am I closer
to the mirage rising, camels and palm fronds,
the fanning that reveals itself

                   as blood built on blood. The friends I had.
I am no longer afraid of their kisses.   


—Sam White

Sam White lives in Providence, Rhode Island, where he works as an illustrator and writes poetry.

Originally published in the December 2003/January 2004 issue of Boston Review



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