there’s no sensibility to spilled marbles

looking elegant, sedentary with her lady ankles neatly crossed, sipping bubbly from a crystal flute, clutching her alligator purse.

she’s not sauntering the sands looking for deserted bottles in which to wedge love-notes to the gods.

all her gingerly pleated bateau en papier are moored to the sun paled dock.

the peril of “just one” sip and she’s traipsing on the eastern worn rug, smudging a motif peculiar paragon and passages.

a supine and delicate stirring of her mouth, summery and raw, her tongue transversing the sass, the lipstick’s fading.


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