Stranger…Darlin’ Has He Hit You?

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A scalping of blush,
Movement of teasing eyes…

Nylon stockings mottled
With minute holes
Providing asylum
For the tips
Of her fingers.

Her fashion is an illustration
Of fantasy. We trade skin
For identities. He crosses his legs.
His shoulders stoop
A purple vein coils
Through his translucent skin
and imbeds below his clavicle.

His fashion is organic.

I wear eyelashes as scarves.
I wear pockmarks as eyeballs.
I wear toenails for fun.

She ascends off the park bench,
Stares at a dragonfly
Entranced by its jittery positioning
And kazoo like song
Humming from its wings.

She flails her arms,
Spins in a circle,
Collapses to the ground
And uses a stone for a pillow.

The rest of us have found peace.

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