Shakespeare’s Sister


Hazel eyes on the Avon…in ravaged jeans.

She had just been so…sanguine

so masterly

so supple

gone…too soon.

In this land where William took Anne’s hand…

Swaying…

‘Have you got it? Do you get it?
If so how often
Which do you choose
A hard or soft option…

How much do you need?’

If only I could plead.

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Erin understood more than eighteen years could ever understand.

Of course, these were infant moments when I had no grand plan.

Skinhead rock atop of tie dye undertones.

Far from home, I had been willing to bathe in her ocean.

Waters once ashen or stark turned tenderly…vibrant.

Fingertip to skin…

a medley of liquors…

strokes…

soon assertive and grand.

Hearts and secret thoughts will fade away.

Hazel eyes on the Avon.

Black tea, a bed, a breakfast, an English kiss, on the Thames.

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