Julie Watkins

free verse of the unfettered

Not all things can be contained:
casketed in rhyme, scanned into
a neat line, strait-jacket-strapped,
iambic packet-wrapped -

the way
summer butter
s l i d e s
into beachfire toasted muffins, 

the hush of a shared
alpaca blanket as it
silks
against salt-naked skin, 

or you, in the morning;
charcoal lashes
lifting
through a sweat-glistened fringe.