after George Herbert
An empty bed in an empty house, the faucet dripping slowly.
One bite out of two chocolates in a box of bitter truffles.
A small hand and a larger hand slicked with sweat, pushing back hair.
The car trunk left open overnight.
Waking from a dream where everything was grey.
An hourglass. A pear. A shirtless woman
with her back to you.
The hands that sculpted our bodies
illuminated finally by a tired sun.
About the AuthorLaurin was born in Miami, FL and moved from state to state and between countries before landing in New England. She is currently wrapping up her MFA in Poetry at the University of New Hampshire and is working for Mass Poetry, a poetry organization supporting the Bay State. She lives in Cambridge, MA with her husband.