She swirls her fingers
along the straw
and draws, the puddles
among the shapes;
the foolishness
whose strings
don’t attach.
Her hair and poses.
For whom?
I saw her smile and
dance those steps.
Backwards touching toes
and swirling lips;
feeling breath, touching eyes.
Dipping and forming shapes;
of softness and color.
Dip your hair in me.
Tiptoe my neck and gently bruise;
my arm, my sight in dark.
I heal.
Barry Comer 2012
Advertisements
