Unagi

He ran last night with the webbed-hand girl
with a face like the shaded moon,
her perfume in his graying beard,
her laughter in his mind.

But dream girls fade to pillow dust
when touched by thieving dawn.
The old man's lust is a summer eel,
cool in a stream of heat.

Karen Tellefsen
kat2@mindspring.com

Next poem, Vernal Trespass
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