Wallace Stevens and pink ice-cream. Well-that's not me. In lightning, under sheets, I sweat a yellow angel of regret. They see themselves upside-down in me.
Virgins horde their fruits.
On airplanes, highrises, trees, a peacock of shattered glass. Today I cut my leaves and stalk a lover, lilac bowl in bloom. My train is a promise deferred, my French a smile and single words. Side to side we'll slowly rock.