I am not left-handed,
and my trousers don't
fall; but I've posted
this cropping before,
and readers liked it.
Is this portrait rec-
ognisable to you; was
it taken of you, when
no one saw it happen?
Did a companion chase
what you threw, or is
this heroic, easy arc
also a clasp for you?
Were the sage piquant
that day, or were the
breezes full of salt?
The field fairly hums
to us, of who we are.
We note the stallion,
snorting in the mead-
ow dawn, depicting a-
romatics he absorbed,
and emanated; but who
would write the pleas-
ure in the swiping of
it all? Yet we gather
a subjective harvest.
I think this is cool:
that a face should be
first to draw the bal-
sam of the setting of
our thirst, and speak
of restoration in our
unenvisioned escapade.
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