Sitting on the slanted
porch, watching traffic slide.
Tobacco smoke tangled with choked exhaust
drifts to join the clouds darkening
a setting autumn sun
about to shatter on the mountains
to scattered shards of stars.
From an idling car,
guitar sifts through the smog.
Rising,         growing,
        blooming a breezy wetness,
                embracing my ears
                         like that spring day
                              laying with you
                                   that budding field,
                              pink dusk
                         musk of roses
                              floating across
                                   dew glistened grass
                              moist enough to know I feel . . .
                         that touch,
                                   my fingers melting
                               to your hand,
                                my chest burning
                             to your belly,
                                   my cheek blushing
                         to your breast,
                              frictionless heat of holding.
Light turns green,
guitar strings fade
under the hiss of speeding wheels.

Launch your own filament in the comments below.

About Mark Stabler

I've been (and still am in some respect) a Writer, Poet, Archer, Musician, Copywriter, Marketer. But mainly I'm a thinker — too much probably.
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