The lines are getting too long, but i don't have time just now to clean them up and compress them.
The loungers in the square
the soft new-to-sun legs
and rippling cleaved mounds
The purple thistle's burst
stalks itself straight up
In New York neither the couples
nor the scowling old Boricua
leave their bench-spots
"Oh my God! It's not like
we're having /sex/!"
On a South Carolina river
in mellow strolling heat
the Creole band's slung
drummer leans shaded, bobbing
a cigarette and flailing brushes.
16 hours ago
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