Dance, Dance, Dance. Your treasure is safe 20 fathoms deep.
Trickling some laughs and rippling steam,
allow my hands to palm the curve,
and smell my sense and shake the salt.
Ears and waves her boiler-room shy,
trust the touch; the experience of age.
Smell your sense and shake it hard.
Dance toes on scratch-grass roads, feel
the boil, touch the lip – don’t leave me alone.
Touch the sense and push it through.
Tap dance girls all smell the same.
Goofied smiles, such nervous sounds –
skin-squealed up like boards of steel.
Whine the wind for another tale.
Just some love for Summer, just
2010 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015