No thorns, limbs sashay longly, cheetah
walk toward
no prey, footloose, her dark blond hair
streaming, no intrusion. (Beer)     'Could I've
one? ' No
harm. 'Lotsa' people hang
out here.' No blame. (Smoke)
'Peace, ' she said,
in Chrystal clear Downeast, an aroma eluding words, &
a smile that lights a soggy
joint. 'Peace, '
she says, again,
long as she looks past the sniffing. '...I
don't think I've ever
voted... [T]here's a pebble in my shoe...' (and those
feet!) , nature jealously scraping along
her only
tan-less feature, limnable as last year's hangups.
She turns twenty-nine today,
loved me watch her walk away.