Shadows of a cherry tree,
its leaves antique-laced by pear-slug,
glide on an eyelid,
and a small and gentle breeze pats at prayer flags
like a furled cat claw playing lazily;
the two birds, one green, one blue,
exclaim in rustic French.
Tiny spider on my belly
is left alone by an arrested swipe.
Its legs are transparent.
It is almost glass.
Today, I planted hydrangeas
the colour of raspberry juice
spat out with cream.
Yesterday, it was hibiscus
the oily saffron of a bald monk’s robes.
Colours are my drug of choice.
I can hardly bear them.
The good thing about ecstasy is that it passes.
I can hardly bear it.
I need not mention your neat buttocks,
your thin thighs.
Some people believe this is, likewise,
just too much to bear-
and, anyway, you are far away,
and the liberation from you
is also a kind of ecstasy.
How would it be, to have you love me
as much in return?
Such a thing might be too ordinary
for me to endure.
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