running shoulders
high noon sun flames
like massaging fingers,
flapping wings don't
go to sleep, lick
on pools of sweat
P.S.: Oh my, how time flies, and here I am just to fill this space. Reading Edwin Thumboo's "Still Travelling", half-way through Derek Walcott's "White Egret" (a tough nut to crack) - now, I know I am terribly ill-disciplined.
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