by May 23, 2012 0 comments

At the risk of being misconstrued,
your shoulders fluffed themselves
like flamingo feathers darkling brine
below the ankle-deep Atlantic.

Like a puffer fish your shoulders
inflamed each organic fold of engorged lip over lip,
thunder clouds tattooing your coral neck.

Ah, that’s how I’ll always remember
our delicious kisses
that night you left a sandal,
or someone left a sandal,
(right one as I recall) on that seawall
barely two hundred moonlit yards
below the spidery legs
of the Lake Worth pier.

editors note:

Sandals on a seawall need not be notches on a gun; no trophies, just sweet reminiscences. – mh

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