if he, with his sideways eyes
channeling a shark,
spies
her dress clinging
to curves over-
bursting with youth…
[how he loves the preening
the prancing the pressing,
the way the fabric stretches like
a second skin]
if he, hands like sinking stones,
reaches out, the
girl
vanishes in a
wash of hopelessness
like a trail of oxygen
dissipating by drowning…
Press Send Poetry 
somehow this makes me think of child abuse…hands like sinking stones…ugh…strong images…also the vanishing in a wash of hopelessness
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i feel like if i comment i might compel people to read the poem in a certain way sooo i'm going to refrain… at least at this point. lots of strange thoughts in my head with this one.