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The care of a wine seller, We kiss in sibilant hiss, Old Jamaica on her lips, I can feel a touch of gin A fleeting jinni, Playing roulette in my breath, I hear notes; semiquavers, When our head turns, tongues churn, In opposite vector. I’ll take you to the festival Of spoken word, Present you as my piece. My thin fingers, Strike the red ochre, The red on your lips, Is it Arabica, Roasted berries on your lips? Am possessed, God! Am blessed! There’s palm wine, In her breath, And those round earrings, Dancing like herring. As murmurs lilt, heads tilt, And ways of that ilk, Confessions in the back, Streams meet in us, Currents, up and down. Bluish wisps of dawn, Rivulet down your face, Ah! This is grace.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2009

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Date: 7/3/2009 9:16:00 PM
This is another great write from you and yes you can recite about saline!
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Date: 5/29/2009 6:52:00 PM
Very lovely poem! Welcome to the soup! -Alley
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Date: 5/29/2009 9:59:00 AM
Pretty stanzas.
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Date: 5/29/2009 3:00:00 AM
Sure is grace:)Love It.Great description of your affection for her!
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