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Thursday, July 12, 2012



On the door frame,
white paint hangs like a pout
then peels
in slow slivers.

The afternoon sun nibbles
a little each day.
Nothing is left
except naked wood
and a few curls of paint quivering
beneath the sun's breath.

The door frame cannot resist
the sun's fingers,
cannot say no
to its searching touch
and scorching kisses.

I know this.
I know the paint will swell
and give way,
will split and open.

The sun's caress
is so insistent
and delicious.

As I paint,
I feel the sun
behind me
pulsing, rounding with desire.

I know my bristles
will not stop
its hunger.


Crafty Green Poet said...

I can feel the sun here!

The first stanza is particularly well described!

Maude Lynn said...

This is luscious!

Carol Steel said...

Thanks CGP. I stared at the unpainted door frame for a long time before I realized that the old paint looked like pouts. Then struggled with how to use that.

Carol Steel said...

Thanks Mama Zen. It's a fine line between sensuous writing and sleaziness. A hard place to walk but I like the images it brings.