Close GAP 2009

Snow, freshly fallen velvet.
Smoothly ironed sheets, fluttering in the wind just an hour ago.
Sheep clouds, stiffly beaten, like cream.
Spray, mermaid-curled, crowned with foam.
The white cliffs of Dover.
Salt on sun-warmed skin.
Seagulls glide on an azure blue background.
Sails, wind-swept, glaringly bright, right near the horizon.
Swan lake feathers.
Seaweed, undulating, roots deep in clockwork-fine sand.
Petals, silky smooth as ivory.
Your bathrobe, terry cloth soft, still a hint of shaving foam.
April cool morning, six o'clock in the morning.
Fruit of the Loom, still warm from the dryer.
Dove soap, finely porous and pure.
Curtains made of wild silk, billowing wide in the gust.
Ice flowers at minus twenty degrees.
Martini dry, shaken, not stirred.
Cotton flowers, snowball colored, cool.
Summit cross in the Himalayas, my breath smokes in the wind.
Chalk, crunchingly dry and smooth.
Spring water in January, crystal clear.
Napkins, old linen, rough.
Schiesser fine rib, close to my skin.
"Not just clean, but pure!"
Starched shirts, father killer, gin.
And this is "Close".
So very "Close".