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Poetry with motion


i hear the to and fro sounds

of a pin-striped towel

drying off shoulders

back and buttocks

i draw nearer

draped in terry towel grace

wet hair, wet face

he kisses me

nips my bottom lip

lively winds blow

the kind that links

improv to years

the kind that

finds beetles

running through

strawberry leaves

hiding , finding, reminding

wandering hand in hand

by mary ann blinkhorn

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