27.055 MHz @ Blue Levels: In The Poet's Back Yard, Kyros And Cadence

On the Poet's small estate, in the back yard, the

two longhaired adolescent boys (just eighteen

years old, just graduated less than a month ago),

invited to vist at their leisure during the

Poet's absence for conferences with his publisher

(despite intrusive suggestions otherwise

from those who knew nothing about it at all), they had

left their shoes at the ornate front door; and

left their shirts on the backporch swing; and, in

just a few moments, had set up a croquet field.

Beneath their matching lavender socks, the grass was

a vibrant, vital, and vivacious, deeply-toned green.

Their baggy, bell-bottom jeans had faded to the sky's

color, and the sun deliciously and repeatedly kissed the

contours of their bare torso, while the gentlest of

summer breezes tosseled the cascades of their soft curls.

High stone walls, lined on their inner sides with higher edges,

kept out the peering peeps of ponderous, prejudice prudes.

Following their balls all over the yard between the wickets,

they chattered, and laughed, and paused one in a while to

exchange one of those open-mouthed kisses, their

tongues provocatively touching and swirling about.

From time to time, the balls had to be "sent," having

first received a gentle, staying press of a sole

soft-sheathed in a grass-stained lavender sock,

cling tightly to the contours of the foot it surrounds.


Januarian

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