Monday, March 12, 2012

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
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
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