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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 17

A Fantasy

Those few occasions linger.
An honest desire seizes
Untouched details: her slim fingers
On a cigarette, her bare knees.
Each remembered glance
Can show she loved me.
                         I made myself a lost romance.

Sometimes, I play saxophone
Through small, rapt rooms of my mind
Into hers. In a musical moan,
She knows. Meeting, we are kind
In the confusion of our eyes.
- But I never took the chance.
The unsaid dies in rich sighs.
                        I made myself a lost romance.

William Considine