Skin Lane

The workbench wood winks at the rays
familiar with the feeling, and
the knives sit sharpened
waiting for duty.
And he stands silently, in 1967:
unblinking, dead-eyes reflect back,
but they’re unfamiliar,
so is that pang of confusion.

The workbench wood feels:
strange tongues of a different heat
and the knives, sharp as ever,
slowly sink into ash.
He only turns back in memory.
And nobody knows why.

Except one naive, chance encounter
with blonde locks and sapphire eyes.

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