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your
sunslathered skin
leaves lustprints
atop cheeks worn sore
with festigrins

tribal bright and high
rhythmic play
clapslap, stamp
will you think twice
if bohemian free love
falls across your lap

stories wraptrapped
in colored canvas
stored tight
the drummer’s tale will not
follow you home
but like the ganjadust on your feet
your conscience will

 

I’ve linked this up at dVerse for Poetics ~ LogophiliaΒ 1, where words are being invented and taught to do somersaults.

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