Sunday, July 29

In Paints

swore lay we the blue sea to lie, as selfishly our
boat swept patterns of infinity and round
us nowt but nowt and selfishly ours to middle in –
there in misty aroma of hearty breakfast

(brown toast
sardines & tomato sauce, nestling fragile soft spines
that retreat to the edge of plates)

my romantic lingers on the deck for seven winds
to swoop over, yessum, elements of good taste sent
by fronts ; no cloud no cool, no life but for sunlight.

balancing on a horizon so steady

we are in a morning after a night
(dull white lights pierced the hull
and she was all was all was she)
and there is she on deck in flowerfield-colour-bottoms
not a flower know I but a flower nonetheless

blonde hair halo radiated

upon hearing me – a smile: not enough for a museum
but enough to die for’n a battlefield or for a
chapel ceiling (in paints they just stopped selling)

put I down our day’s first bottle of wine the wind
all over my back & in my hair; the blue slice the bow
the sea the sky do compete though neither do win
outstretched with ten tips pointing in gloss matching
last night’s gown; hooray, finely legs shaped saying herearewe
none haired but the fines on her thighs
lay we side-by-side which can’t stop me
peering her limbs down

so it goes on; so they go on
the fantasies I take photographs of

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