Alcohols of balconies
wink on the streets below
as they breathe and broach
a swell of inside warmth,
dropping down the glance,
the skein of knotted squint,
that has wavy balustrades
and breastwork wrought
for fathered longing eyes.
And just as often between
the body and the soul,
it befalls that the seam,
the line, is breached, and in
or out booth are free to move.
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