Bay Window

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
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
                                                       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.

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