Tripping

Your elegance has got me

Like a running nonsense poem,

Our mutual mustard colours

Dipped with a cerise,

Metaphors that shoot up

With the rain

Are half-filled pots

Of what we know as joy;

A sincere joy, insincere joy,

Security bought by the penny,

Regarding pounds with jealous eyes.

If you placed a radio

In your kitchen house,

Where the toll is better,

You’d have such pleasures,

As a voice that comes as brightness,

And my hand

To help our garden’s

Colours reflect the summer rainfall,

In tangerine with more

Than the indigo lights

That flash about: star-tips;

I’ll let it go to be reeling,

Head with clouds

Of green-leafed clovers

Cannot deny,

The image a thousand predicates in itself.

When beneath the forest-

Trees for the picking-

Stands a slowing person

Running the end of my heart

Through platforms grey,

Though bringing out those

Golden highlights

In the hair of foliage;

Air that dances, light

Performs our ceremony

With a certainty,

We’ll aid what amazon

We venture into,

With knife flashing amber,

That certain simile will bind,

Bind us tight from rhyme to line;

Do what you must to shape me,

But indeed your hands have got me.

The End

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