Free verse

Centered, She

made the rounds of the alphas in a step

Atonement, for the record is amiss in twirls of satin concentric within the rim of shadows sparkling metallic with beadwork to catch the glares of scoundrels boxing dance floors with leg jerks and participles. Dangling…

Fibonacci and some rum, bound for midriff and sequence skirted inert to boundaries rounded over scratches on records, mar imperfections in the face beyond the dark made rogue with the square of a jaw.

She made the rounds of the alphas in a step as she entered with the dark basking her in reverence at the pinpoint of all glances.

Spoken in a spill of the banter with a part of her lips and a sigh heard with rings from stones that skip across flickers of wrists triggered in cliche, no brow could match the time of her glance lost to turntable, players, and skills.

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