Peycho Kanev, George Sand

Rosemary Bailey, WC 20


George Sand

I look at her.
She is sitting at the edge of the bed with a glass
of wine in her hand.

“Change the music, baby,” she says,
“it’s too much blues tonight.”

So I take out Miles Davis and put something classical.
some good piano.

She closes her eyes.

“Mmm, that is better,” she says,
“come here.”

I get up from the chair and sit next to her
and after two more bottles
again and
again we fall in the abyss:

those legs swinging like the arrow of a metronome
those lips looking like cadenza finale
that body looking like a chorale prelude
I am lost here forever

and just before I fell
I stop,
she looks into my eyes breathing heavily,
hers deep into mine,
she says,” What?”
and I didn’t say anything.
I just stare.

For such grace,
even Chopin would

Peycho Kanev

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