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Gingerly
I want to catch the fox's frigid stare, far-reaching, roaming, seedless sour eyes, on twitching whiskers, feel his raising hair, though smells of ginger, yellow cobalt skies, align the senses, warm my gazing mind, distract the body dressed in red-hot ties until the sly fox sniffs along behind my sugar-shadow, snips my giving hand, devours bruised black raisins till I'm blind. I want to fly as far as no man can; where brand new eagle-eyes can clearly bear the sight of red and indigo, again-- take refuge where the air is free of glare, release the lonely fox's frigid stare. ©2000 Peggy Putnam Owen |