neither sunlit, nor shadowed

legs splayed, intentionally haphazard
forming a ivory triangle of rapture
uncentered, and unfinished, as are we all
damp and aching, as still left hollowed
as still, in wait–
bending knees’ lithesome earthward turns
drawing open pearl-shimmer thighs
as teasingly– as the warm amber did ramble
‘crost a boundless, June sky
on that serendipitous day
aye, perched upon the wooden stairway
tucked inside the chipped-paint doorway
where the sidewalk-hobblers might leer
she peered
above her open book’s frays
held aloft
abreast her womanly bosom
enswathed– in winsome, cotton-blossom cloth

rounded florets of faded fuchsia
rising, and then wilting
into the afternoon’s steamy melancholy
slow-waltzing to the vagrant’s cadence
of solitude’s symphony
eyes of chestnut, so wide, so clear
cajoled, and implored
twisting wisps of twirling curls
framing youth’s hungered yearning
its slight and lovely rounds
its hope, flourishing
delicate petals of lavender
blooming though the concrete’s stony gray

soft-cilia sinew, pulled taut horizons
emanating from where a woman’s skin
creases– toward dusk’s haven
aye, where her inner thighs divide
‘neath loose-linen’s tawny billow
neither sunlit, nor shadowed
neither pure, nor tainted
tho gossamer-veiled
and she looked as though, maybe
she wanted–
to say something
everything, perhaps
wordless things

shallow decades of vagueries, of silent muddle
awash in wishfulness
lingering, as do our misgivings
pooling upon the curl of her tongue

her lips parting, fallen open
a tenuous whisper escaping, unheard
seen, fleeing–
into the ether’s vast scattering
but known, once, before gone

then came a breeze from the west
carrying her perfume-scent
east, toward my thinning resistance

as a younger man
I might have inquired
her name
perhaps–
I might have answered
her beckon
perhaps–
spending a June afternoon
or a burning summer of fire
learning her
poetry

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