In young summer, everything spirals:
your beach house staircase, those shells
we find by drilling sand with tanned toes,
porpoises’ paired rolling through deep green,
loopy smoke of dusk-lit bottle rockets.
Your face is framed by the spin of sunlight blond
as your smile begins a curling ribbon path
toward dizzying kisses and Twistee Treat ice cream.
Even fling is a form of turning –
a stretched piece of circle in history’s scroll.
VACATION CRUSH, 1992 by John Davis, Jr. | Poetry Reed Diffuser
$15.00Price
