County Fair

[71degrees]

Edit #1

I need not search for the girls of summer,
need not write a poem for them against
a bright August moon, rustles of dark
turning maple leaves and pitched voices,
laughters tussling with pipe organ notes
from the county fair across the grassy field:
the Ferris wheel bulbs burning deep blue
deeper red, yellow, orange smooth,
pony tail hair tumbling, smooth skin,
smoother hands, fumbling footsteps
tip toeing, all their lovely hair bathing
in midnight orange, cotton candy blue,
ice red and black berry snow cones
     
I need not search for the girls of summer,
need not write a poem for they are all tongue,
grape licorice, leaning against the boys,
whispering into their ears like young seashells,
"Let’s look at the stars until we both go blind"


Original

I need not search for the girls of summer,
need not write a poem for them for they are
beneath a bright August moon, rustles of dark
turning maple leaves and pitched voices,
laughter tussling with pipe organ notes
from the county fair, across the grassy field
the Ferris wheel bulbs burn deep blue
deeper red, yellow, orange smooth, pony tail
hair tumbling, smoother skin, smoothest hands
fumbling footsteps tip toeing toward shadows,
all their lovely hair bathing in midnight orange
cotton candy blue, red, and yellow snow cones
     
I need not search for the girls of summer,
need not write a poem for them for they are
all tongue and grape licorice, leaning
against the boys with tight thighs, whispering
into the ears like young seashells,
"let’s look at the stars until we both go blind"

I need not search for the girls of summer,
need not write a poem for them for they are
in all their female splendor, bodies framed
in unspoken clarity; I fear if one shakes loose
tonight, she will surely darken me.