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Granduer at Miniscule Debit

Ply me with grass fingers
you wave through the old growth
and the fresh barometric stubble
shinning with eyes pulled
deep from sounding action
coloured by storms and fires
lit by sunsets harsh and
tender attraction

Nickle and dime salutation
and your trick as you turn that
worn lucky peice through your
fingers and click it on your
grandmothers ring
walking in your gait across
cracked greyling sidewalks
that have seen steel rimmed
democrats and winged Detroit

astute student you can glide
around me impatient and humoured
and in my longhand thinking
and stubborn lattitude I
keep turning the idea until
I find the shell that will sing
the oceans breath
the pretty conch
tinged with the dawns first light
when man was struggling
before his first fires

there are moments when you
arrive pockets full of treasury
and folded money whose
colours are flags of prosperity
"Passaporte" you exclaim
and your words slink from
luscious rose lips and the shadows
from all the years hiding are
darkened like a room letting in rains

you smell of warm smoke
and the oils for your gloss black hair
that trails like dampened wings
from the bath

"Icarus never had it so good" you
say and you tell me in a whisper
as you lean over me in the tattered
cottage chair we dragged from a
"I shall never fly so close to any damned God"

I am glittering sipping Labsynthe we shouldnt
afford listening to Delibres Flowers Duet
your cuffs are discoloured
from the laundry the cheap imported
textiles that run like discount ink cartidges
I write with
my poems become spring blossom
fragments scattered stuck
in the basket

weary years have drawn down
and broken handed
we dance
barefoot and serene

soot black night
seeps through the grace
that keeps us at this

holds us suspended
and encircled
by the gravity of loves
strict business
our ledger of trust

Style / type: 
Free verse
Editing stage: 


You held me with this, it's like a slow stroll through a summer evening and everything is in slow motion.
The title 'grandeur' :) needs an edit. I just love the way you write.

"The perfect woman perpetrates literature as she does a small sin: as an experiment, in passing, to see if anybody notices it - and to makes sure that somebody does." - Nietzsche

the evening walk
everything in that light
and the transpiration
of magic at the changeling time

Thank You

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