Wet touch.

Liquid lines around the shore;

Wet touch.

A stranger until we’re in danger.

Light dances across the water –

following a plane.

Seven lights blink, not in sync, broken across the bay.

The smell of tobacco stains the air.

Breathing-in and out-heart unmatched; rhythm.

Toe tapping.

Gravel scraping.

A headlight shines through the musk of night.

Laughter cranes the atmosphere, just hanging, hoping.

Hands throw gestures in the sky.

What am I missing?

A passenger seat glance.

An eight-ball’s chance.

Wet touch.

M.

Poetry

Mandy Joy Poole View All →

Writer and photographer from remote Labrador, Canada. Just another cold Labradorian chillin' in the Big Land. Can most likely be found walking my dog Grace or behind an iMac screen slowly taking over the interwebs.

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