Oak-aged, Leonard’s voice.
Dancing in the early hours, turning
on the spools of his words;
arms pouring like wine downward,
filling her full with his lilt;
her eyes soft as the vowels he intoned;
her feet unsure, carefully stepping
on the cobbles of song;
singing it one beat behind
as though each word arrived one moment too late;
swaying,
the glass of wine in her hand
precarious
like a life on the verge of spilling.
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