Winsome Fire

The dance of silk over my hips
crossing the bridge in the
strenuous rain,
I strive for the dream damp
roof of my umbrella.
Slipping through a street
silver with desire,
in my slip, pink and traditional
as ballet or tongue,
I enjoy the voyeuristic windows
gawking at me,
vacant, mirroring.

I am slinking like a wisp of smoke
to a place I do not know,
an identity sculpted by a
winsome fire.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.