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Sand Blast

A feather tight separation
 Eludes the sandscape of a colored mind,
 Molded by a wind of habit, throw sandy squalls
 In my face,
 Pinning down a polish,
 Faded since a child used these eyes.

Brushes held by another's hand
 Massage, grate, distinguish, enhance
 my nervously smiling tattered canvas.
 An eavesdropped whisper to her mother
 And a walk to the kitchen for hot tea;

 A candy impression
 Save some for me.

T. J. M. 91

Copyright © 1998 Tobin Jon Manley. All rights reserved.