Will you?

Come Play

Those braided chains around each finger:
rings rosy, helixed where what’s within
reaches for anothers’ skin.

The fissured callus beneath each heel:
mud-flat playa where what’s without
turns, returns, and ends the drought.

Those ghost-fine lines across each cheek:
ex’d and hatched where smiles begin
and rest, again, from outside in.


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The poem above missed the submission deadline for the current issue of quarrtsiluni, "Come Outside" -- but you don't have to miss reading/seeing what's been published there.