moth-winged
the sail spread
crepuscular
oranges, red.
lines of sky,
sea. i
fold;
stems bend,
petals
before thee,
o strange
one oh
mystery.
she plays
intermittently
with hair,
hands,
her art
eukinetic
leaves no trace of cutting.
strikes the object of her knowing.
i don’t care
languid
on the stairs
self-possessed
w ½ a glass
let us
modulate
let us
take the air,
francesca.
Haha, yes, you jumped at the chance, I can see, and probably smeared it in something awful so I wouldn’t even want it back.
no, i’ve just used it a lot. thoroughly, you know
with many of your spare, sparse poems I feel I want a photograph…anything, a heel on the stairs, the shadow of a flower on a wall, something…like the poem then sits in its potplant pot.
thanks Dean
yeh that’s true of a lot of my poems – want of image. i like that snap shot of a heel on the stairs. might use it.
interesting also the metaphor of a pot plant – an image to hold the poem together, to ground it, i suppose you mean, or something like that
How languid & lyric, amico! Maybe can catch up at Christmas.
Hi Peter,
thanks. that would be nice. you can get your towel back, but you might not want it now