3.20 p.m

the sun on the palm frond breathes
salt and the breeze sets inland

the water sweeps in linen tides
waves dither in a band of silver, the cursive script
scrolls end of the day

the grey of her eyes
washes thousand morning glory flowers
faces pressed on dark silt, their pollen

star her iris,
gravelly in shots of goldthread the sand rises
in the silk he holds against her skin


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