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Before Dinner (Free verse) by D. $ Fontera

The pestle is bone. The whisk, fingers. Balustrades tremble to my touch. The morter is flesh. Each dancing spot of flour Dusts your skin, Flutters with your breath Steps buckle and sway. My voice, a stifled burst. The pin turns a swathe. The cup, sweet lips. Smoke churns as I enter. The breadth extends. I hesitate, pierce the doorway.

Ranger 5-May-06/10:58 AM
I doubt dinner was on the menu.




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