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Dennis A. Clark


Heartbeats Go

back arched
thigh muscles taut
she catches
in her hair 
the harvest moon

air wet
and coooool
face flushed
from the rush
she sucks his thumb

ocean
mixed with
sweat
mixed with
swooooon

heartbeats go
tap-tap, tap-tap
taptaptaptaptaptap
thump-thump
ba-boom ba-boom

ba-bum, ba-bum
slowdown
collapse 
and sigh
night has never felt so wiiiiide
​

Tangerines

Last light, tangerines.
This path winds into shadows.
Back there: footprints, rinds.

Picture


​​​Dennis A. Clark's profile
    

She Wonders Why I Choose Poetry

but who with words like stones
can explain those strange reflections,
layered ghosts on glass,
of some run-down desert motel we pass,
its neon sign sputtering
against the flitting of locusts
rising before a sun
set by now miles from here,
replaced with the new moon
and two strangers who,
walking barefoot down the beach,
reach for each other and grab tight,
forgetting, as high tide masks
their traces, the questions
they've been longing
to ask?

Yellow Plums

Walt Whitman lies long
in marigolds, savoring
yellow plums: sour-sweet.


Picture

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