• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 08


Even a light spray of gold
is bad for the pores,
preventing free transit
of the finest perspiration.

When it runs like clarified butter
over hands, the thinnest eyelids,
it’s worse than that; all light
comes back – yellow.

Her eyes are closed
against the blue and green,
only egg yolk or a Rocher wrapper
coats a harvest daydream.

Mother says wash it off, before it sets.