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Click herehip to ankle denim
with rivets
rustling the air
with her progress
heads turn cracking necks
there is something delightful
under those folds of noise
faded to soft pale blue
entering my tent
she pinches hard
her own cheek
I reply with play smack
her hand is strong
leading my wrist
back to reality and palm
reddening slap
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 35,000 poems.
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