She is waxing prosaic as she elbows her way
through the crowded agora, how she loves the bustle!
Throwing fingers up to signal the meter, opening bids
under kerchiefed hands where a shake resembles a seductive
sleight of fingers traced in palms’ undersides;
I continue to traipse my way up her wrists until
I cup her shoulders and press the tension
from her neck and temple. I will smooth her
into massaged rapture before agreeing that
her prose is genuine.

© Chagall ∞

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