Playing
Each day playing with a girl with hairdresser allure
I live in a blond poem of air, near the timid azure:
Counting the legs walking in the park of my spring,
I tell you sweet nothing, to exclaim: how interesting!
So, I play with the days laughing of me, in the rye:
Leggy girls drawing a shining horizon of their thigh.
In my cradle of wishful thinking, the fugitive Albertine
Escaped from Proust, still smiles in the same scene.
In which, I really am the catcher of each invented joy.
So, I play with the sun running the long clouds convoy.
And you keep your hand on my shoulder and smile,
Like only a sunny day knows: at distance of a mile,
Far away from the young tempest jumping the rope.
Some days borrowed the perfume of Miss Hope...
Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2016
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