ReConfigured: By That Copse Of Trees, Near The Interstate Highway

Near the highway, a
copse: your ankle boots, shirt and
bra fall off; leaving
your mini-skirt and dark tights,
and curves bare from the waist up.



All those cars speeding
by; drivers intent on toil,
can neither share nor
comprehend the vision of
beauty have given me.



Your fulsome curves and
soft, shoeless footsteps are the
contours that trace Love;
receiving traces of my
desire---not just in these words.



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