Sometimes, I write poems.
Monday, May 17, 2010
There. The deck chair and the blue towel. Your book.
But [he sets them down] you. Gone.
And scans everywhere at a glance. Paba Tan spf 15.
Cap open. Guy selling hats. Calypso music. Sand.
You should be -- you should be -- she should be --
And a sound, a laugh he knows in the ocean, laughs.
The sun clips the water, the very wave swallowing her
promises him. She is here.
She will drink this, with me.
c. Ciprianowords Inc., 2010
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