The July sunset turns again to gold,
champagne clouds afloat across the sky—
petal-veined, like femmes in angled dress,
leaning in like overfilled glasses
from which the night gladly sips—
a tender, dallying descent,
whispering: “I’m no good
at kisses that fall flat—
nor at the touch worn thin by cliché.”
Indeed, how deep the feline gaze can graze,
how it glows—even if it blushes—
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