You doze yet a little while, and I can easily wait, for behind your eyelids shining sun as it slowly moves toward its western horizon. I know you open your eyes when the light has left its glittering memory as gold dust on the dune sea grasses, and the poet’s open inkwell begins to smell of inspired words.
Still your sun keeps your sleep awake and painters’ palettes full of lust, while the wine is decanted. Seagulls improvise to the pummeling’s compositions. Shadows sluggish range longs to transcend their borders and settle down.
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