Yes T S

With your peaches and newspapers, briny
Smoke and dust, billow and roll down city blocks.
You are a sensual one, pertaining to the senses.
Almost every word has its own smell.

Raising dingy shades on a vast continent,
Horses, old women, hypocrisy, anguish
Cigarettes and vacant lots. Smoke and dust
Fill our mouths and

hurry up please

I have learned to care and not to care.
I have learned to sit still.

*

O e e

You’ve written your muscular love poem to a muscular painter
Of angles and eyes.
Of anger and creamy thighs.

I have woken up inside your hair-thin tints of yellow dawn,
I have also drowned in buttery sun poured through
a kitchen window
I have strolled through your women-coloured twilights.
I have also stumbled blindly through pregnant air

You have your flash, your bag of trick y tricks
But when I conjure you, I think not of busy monsters, nor
Of large together coloured instances.
Or even of

tic snow toc.

Instead I think of a little church At peace with nature, a brittle swoon, Then (of solongs and,ashes)

*

You both liked roses and female smells in shuttered rooms.
You both loved Spring best and she loved you back.

hurry up please

Fierce and fragile, angular curves,
You both wrote of churches and rain,
Prayers. Dust alighting like

it’s time