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Tuesday, July 17, 2007

warmed waters: seeing red but not red



Softly
the moon sighs her heavily
labored breaths
As the tide sings
invitingly
when it dashes the rock

Hands of fires
dig deep
into the warm body of sands
Kneading them gently

gripping them
mass by mass
Feeling each grain

passing through its scorched fingers
Pushing out each strand
of dissipating mounted pain
Fanning and feeding
each sliver
of escaping flame

Grass blades slip by, around

and on ladened palms
As both swim in thick perfumes

of a virgin’s blood
The whisper of the sea

a steadily rhythmic streaming
Likened to the murmurous beats

of a waltzing out march
Each stroke stokes
burning caresses
of this siren’s call
The salt ladened hairs mooring

themselves in curves
Etching line by line
the sinewy mounds of the moistened shore

The lapping 
of renewed life comes

Slaps of viscous oil, the sound
of hastily pouted lips
a smack of life's breath of fire


memories
from a faraway shore
sketched in the sands of time
posted in a blink
from between three homes
and homelessness

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