Women go out with slightly painted eyes,
roads dotted with trees bent to Fall—
welcoming an artist’s random adoration
from clairvoyant dreams—
And the waterlines of shirts and skirts
timelessly cling to riff and twang—
a bit higher, yet just enough,
on slowly swaying backs—
Hailing to pools where the path
ceases, where lilies
likewise swing and float,
with a breath that takes us in—
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