Waves surge with the movement of his feet,
bare, rising sand as he dances. The beach whistles
as it bends around his hips. Each pump of palm tree
drums the sway of curving arms. His toes wind
through the speakers of the sand, grains booming
against singing skin, and the feeling in him smiles.
He is the tropical. He is the sun darkening his skin,
lifting the fruit of freckles, bleaching the salt in
his hair. He is the spray of ocean on land curling
above the dunes. He is a call of conch crying over
the air. He is the shells guiding his steps. As he
moves, blood kissing within him, he is it all.
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