Imp

Present pebbles, small poems. Stones

Voices.
We awaken to the swing of a rusty hinge
reluctantly moving swollen woods.  Someone
pulls the rope of a two-stroke engine, instant purring
“ella esta loca…” Laughter.  At least 3 men with you
today, while faraway women fill
your
every thought.

I see your dimples and gold teeth shining
with eyes closed.

Imp.

present poems:  small stones

Author: tara linda

Musician, performer, poet, jewelry maker

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