The Stretch

The stretch brings up pangs
of pins and needles.
The masochistic tickle,
as the muscles exude their nimbleness.

The innards try to come outwards
in a pleasurable movement.
Peering out,
the wide yawn of the skin.

The crack in the day,
allows for the legs to touch the floor.
The floor gives way,
the stretch is no more.

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Observations

Friday,

early twilight,

the beach replete with nostalgic signatures.

 

The Walker negotiates through couplets,

grouplets,

sleepy uncles in deck chairs,

beards, t-shirts and BBQs,

feminine summer flora,

salt-water dogs on pink pebbles.

Beer.

 

The Walker does what the Walker does best.

Striating crowds,

lost in the lives of others –

a latter day flaneur

imagining the sideline stance

as a confirmation of integrality, an a priori.

 

But the Walker observing,

only observes, as a Walker;

only walks,

as an Observer.

 

Movements urge like springs,

empyting on to the Walker’s brow,

the water of time wetting her cheeks

as walking becomes sitting,

palms to knees,

shoulders to sand,

eyes to sky –

the Observer takes the ribbon from her pleated hair.

 

Because the Walker observing,

only observes as the Walker,

only walks,

as an Observer.

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