The sky was round with lanolin sometime during 1952

Dorian Booth
 
light reflects the dark crevices
in his skin
unlike any dark tale I can fathom.
his voice- ivory and honey
warming my sinister spirit.
 
            red wine
 
his flesh turning to
a warm cinnamon
burning my graceless palms
searing my sight
 
Eleanor Dawson
 
selling ludicrous advice on “how-to-live”
website devoted to her reflections
philosophy on eggplant and hard boiled tofu
 
her glass of water
stands as tall as her bust
dripping wet-
with sarcasm
deliberation
sunshine
 
Wednesdays around 2 pm
 
crisp cucumber sandwiches
sodden beneath my toes
indigo skies
downcast dreams of oak tables
champagne on her body
solidified in candle wax, honeysuckle
 
seven, eight, nine

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