from Sandy Room #2

8

I hear footsteps
and the blood begins
to listen,

the scrunch
of boots on sand
on concrete steps:

coarse bristles
crisp rusking
on the steps…

I swam here
two seasons before
the tremendous surge

the summer, swore
I’d wear my {~} more
than I had been, habitat

of work and that
amazing pride
a father earns

remaining while his child
yearns eras
ahead of him.

the acceleration
agents, degreasers,
a leaf blower…

the Cleaning firm
is sweeping the ground
floor sand back

to the beach.
and swiftly I incline
toward my underwear,

half a hardy, light pivot
in the hips, gesticulating
limb, a secondary

minimum influence,
like shadow
the sun-light accentuates

on this melon, geranium
this feel-capsule of platforms
spun hippity hop

sharing nearly everything
we’ve got
a winning method

to attract & keep hot
the controlled emotion
of minds secondary

not less, strangers, pent
up as the smoke is when
unlit.

 

 

 

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