• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 08


there is no taste only patterns
of ochre as they drip in surprise
down the contours of your face

I want to kiss you – try to find
a space between your lips and
will them to open – let me into

the dream you dream now – suspect
an intention in your hand held across
your breast as it drips slips up

and down as a posture to be maintained
passion for paint a premonition
of what will happen when you wake

to thoughts so fluid they will ache
long before the arrival of any action