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Three Spanish girls tame their hair in their window-box
when night has run out of favors. They talk
about the ocean as a fashion show, the walk
of each wave, its silk, its lace, each wave stepping
back to stage. They comb their ferocious black hair
and wait for the sun's itch. They'll doze like cocoons
in yellow beach chairs. They tease sleep on the beach.
They drink elixir from yellow cups to keep their feet
from sleeping. When the sun is done they chase ghostly
parties, the bones of which are tripped over in the grass:
wine, beer, whiskey groan. They arrive late
each night even though the sleepless have more time
to expire. Their feet come quick, quick over the patio
into the open dark. The reverb is flat in the grass.
The sound of chatter is being chased away.
They don't want to miss anything and follow the chatter
away to a different house. Each night the party light
settles upon flashing feet in the grass. When all
is consumed the girls divorce their tired parts,
toss them behind like bottles in the grass.
They creep home, comb their hair, make their tricks.
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