Thank you!  A friend down here who walks the boulevard with me each day [oh, but that does sound a little risque, doesn't it?] asked me what all the rust was about, explaining she was a quite 'literal' reader.  I answered, 'erosion, age, you know' -- and she got it.  So I'm especially grateful all this flaking works for you and others here.  Again, thanks!

Rereading her with pleasure, Lynn, and wonder about cutting two words:

It’s agosto, and Baja California norte
remains cool, overcast, chilly;
day, and the green khaki of cold waves
frays into tangles of foam and reweaves.
Rust has made Bargello patterns on her screen,
a pressed metal screen with a dead-bolt, on her,
rust riding her thighs and thatching hip sockets
and small caves sheltered by patellae where
hieroglyphics of flings tell, and tell again
in rust-woven webs of mambos
she’s danced.  The tides see her through,
relentless as sheep bearing fleece
no matter how seasonally shorn—
naked in washes of green seas of leas,
spinners in huts sweating yarns
for noviembre’s socks.  She pauses, not lost,
not creaking, nor oiled, outside a shop
selling adornments for ears
of septiembre, octubre, perhaps
even spring, a mambo stirring, flaking
rust, yet stirring, and has the shopkeeper
shoot studs through the lobes of her ears.

in spite of the repetition of rust, I envision a young spirit here...
much enjoyed, Lynn


Stella

stella!  i missed your comment until now.  thank you!