Eyes narrow
in the dusk. Freckles vanish, her skin
grows milky, and her eyes turn bizarrely somber.
Parading your tally of curlicue sugarbush
was a transgression.
This clutter of crockery on a statuary hillside
is no tabernacle. Who shall abide legislation
flitting across crumbled accordions
yawning in taut failure?
Large flakes blur addresses and phone numbers.
It’s difficult to leave
“the centre of an extensive business in piracy,
privateering, smuggling, and legitimate trade.”
Once I had my license, such a red mane and freckles
almost surpassed the supple flag-waving
cheerleader I barely dated.

The Victorian Christmas overrides
Puritan objections.
At last, a man becomes weepy.

I’ve fancied a dance partner for life.
Draw me closer.

To continue, click here.
Copyright 2015
Poem originally appeared in Wings


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