Catkins on a Silk Tie

Regarding what I said the other day:

A deep square leatherette chair,

you in your Fair Isle sweater, are,

Lips pursing; chin, receding slightly.

A pen like a cigarette, or baton

from your arm caresses up

the daffodil wall

absently.

When we were in bed

my labia drew you like a magnet,

or your fingers drew me.

Now a child noisily drains a juice box

and steam spits from the espresso machine.

The tarry Sangiovese sky

deepens

and you drop

like a page from my surrealistic pillow book,

the hole of your arms,

a mine of gold lies,

where I fall

red ochre of rose dust

in the middle of Alice,

“D’ya think I’m pretty?”

sparkles from her spigot

and a cardinal lilts

in a budding lilac,

a coterie of kisses

as I wait in my st. eve’s,

my Neapolitan panties,

catkins in gin

enthusiastically.