Capri

 

I have sussed all taste and elegance

from my mother.

A box of Capris naps on her thigh,

right on time – in splendid ennui,

at the social hour of twilight.

The quick slight of her fingers

and humanity’s greatest discovery

illuminates its worst fear.

A cigarillo burns.

A fervent, yet subdued candor ensues.

Muted exuberance.

Posture.

Charade.

Voz.

Peel their skin until naked.

Sin embargo, rushing blood shreds the thickest skin.

This light will never burn out.

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