Poetry

Chiaroscuro Girls

A flame encased in blown sugar glass,
Warped. Her arms oscillate out of shadows
In sideways arcs, offer early morning dew
Or frost in sunshine palms. Passes
Out of view. I wait. Anticipate the flash
Of skin in stronger focus. Deeper glow
From the narrowed aperture reveals few – 
No – no clothes. Bareness. I do not trespass
On her rapture, her daily routine. Just
Watch; hug my sides, pinch and wonder if I 
Am toned like her or just skinny. Her dance
Is my breakfast. So at seven I trust
She will be there. And if I catch her eye
Through our windows, I blush, just glance away.

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