Member Rara Avis
He called her hands dainty.
Little clay statues that moved finger by finger.
Pressing flowers to the morn -- so bright.
To his eyes.
For years she wiped away his sweat.
She changed their bed when he was done.
She felt those clay hands melt against
the rocks of shore.
She picked shells from his hair.
Whenever they kissed, coins fell
like rain to the sea. She plucked
quarters, half dollars. All sand.
One day she had enough of his shoreline.
She packed her coast and headed east.
Found a new bed of clams to rest and roast.
Her dainty hands lay still now.
Until she says again:
come to me, my love.
Send the clock over the edge.
Send us off the edge for me.
She said burn ... together.
[This message has been edited by bsquirrel (05-17-2002 11:27 PM).]