Nacre

“Nacre” sounds like an erotic euphemism. A leisurely beachcombing near ancient oyster beds led me to realize that. In fact, it went further, and prompted a poem.

The meter, for those who care, is represented visually as follows:


_._._._
._._.

Oh the shine! My fingers ache
To touch that sweet thing:

Silken colors, slippery,
As soft as me there;

Curves that arc in gentle swoons
Around the body

Once awash in holy calm
Within that temple,

Wrapping scarves of pearl
Around its softness:

Breathing water, eating sand,
Sweating heaven.

Casing empty, body gone,
It fills my eyes now:

Oyster shell, long empty, laps
The flowing water.

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Fabulous dress sense!

Coming up to Castro & Market, I noticed half a dozen middle-aged men, most in wonderful shape, some with jackets draped over their chairs and some with jeans in puddles around their feet. Wearing nothing but hats. … And a few tattoos, possibly as punctuation, but it’s not like they cover anything.

I perked up and went over; said, “Gentlemen, I _love_ your outfits!”

A circle of shit-eating grins glowed back at me. The cutest-and-he-knew-it said, “Thanks; we worked real hard on ’em!”

Had it been an enclosed space (like a bar), I’d have had a comeback, but aware as I was of the very mixed crowd, I just gave a little laugh and passed on –with a big grin.

I love this town.

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