without a stitch on, my afghan hide twitches
recoiling from the serpentine gusts dervishing
sands into sweatpouring pores. may shiva entwine
twenty-one blooming lotus stems, dribbles eavporating
across our kelp scented beach bungalow. lonely old
men bring skeletons back from their caribean labours
to show and tell children. lie back with me under
the beginnings of simoon flowing inland, our skin
two thousand kilometers wafted into the dunes &
cracks of the saltpans. there to hibernate, seeds,
waiting long in the bright, flashing back over our
zaftig days on the turtle laying grounds, watered
well as we will have been, when re-animation arrives.


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