Garden
you hang in sleep
like poppies on the cliff face
it's always Sunday afternoon
when I sleep and it's your turn
to be awake you put ropes
of glowing filaments and
limpid soup in my dreams
and I know you're asleep again
when I pinch the fuchsia leaves and buds
out of the fresh cuttings they leap
from my hands on antelope legs
and instantly sprout large pink skirts
with purple petticoats and run to the hills
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yes your fuschias are lovely =)
ReplyDeletenice description
Heehee. Love the bright, zany tone of the last three lines. =)
ReplyDeleteThanks Greg. It needs some serious editing and rewriting, but I like where it's going.
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