New Year's Eves

In a pub of pensioned men
and stale decor,
two newly women enter:
one fires her smile.

She's young and tough,
and her hair says she's trying too hard,
and she's occupying clothes
that leave so much caress undressed:
she's raw, her own self-portrait.

But that glance was mercantile:
I was about to buy a drink.
Yet the smile was welcome,
like the scent of shocked basil
on a humid summer day.

image: po

Dylan Harris

it's my hands
my difficulty with melancholy
hence the coldness
fear in flight, god
dog sea
push pop

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