Las palmas

I am susceptible to the contour of your hips, they pull me, a tide race, white as sea foam, smell of salt in stirred air, metallic tongue-feel, palpable absence on a sunny day, evaporation as a kind of accumulation, a heavy lightness, breeze that sways the Varadero palms.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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One Response to Las palmas

  1. mrsorenson says:

    Ah touching, or almost touching. The images and blending work. I would like to see (in my mind I did see) this in separated lines. Thanks.

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