Dabs of white silk insulate us from the summers sun's glow.
As I, legs akimbo   s t r e t c h   upon my bed.
Yellow sheets kicked to a hill at my feet.
The walls yellow and the winter throw too.
A petit Sri Lankan Buddha perched on the sill
clocks this summer's air.

It's usually tidy
I recall,
sharing my bed with Du
                                                Bouchet

eyeing three half packed bags,
strewn across the fake parquet.

I find peace in this space.
Martina my caramel Almansa
greeting me with each sun,
Her head golden.
        Amélie's sunburst body cached
                                                     -Hidden
                                                       under my bed.

This space of mine returns me.
As I, with eyes through the glass
pursue planes,
their destinations stealing my being.

Drinking Silence in South London.