Once a man from England
Brought me a cup of tea
As I woke in a farmer’s guest bed
And I wrote the Englishman’s wife
A letter upon his sudden death
In a head on collision
Telling her nothing happened
Where did the onion
In all its variety
Come from?
In all its layers
With paper, paper protection
Where and how did our sublime
Fruit
Originate?
Answer: It has always existed
And always will
In one form or another
Boy I want to dance
To Moonlight Sanata dressed
Diaphanously
I am happy here —
Sun filling my eyes and house
Black cat on my lap
Watched the sun rise twice
First from ocean horizon
Then from narrow clouds
Flock of geese honking
Overhead to where? To me
My flight of music
The man of my dream
Has hair the colour
Of this month’s roadside
Tree stalks and shrubbery
Sandy cinnamon red
Driven through
In afternoon sun
As I set out to find him:
The engineer for my art
My giant Canadian maple leaf
Would Eye like
a Younger Man?
Someone from My Children’s Generation
or does age really matter?
Last night I dreampt
of a dark-haired, bright-eyed gentleman
who held My Hand in an open carriage
and kissed the back of it
each time He said something
Eye have had My Fill
of wedding rings
& long black hairs
dislodged from corners,
bed & bath
The man is Mine —
if He is a Man —
and I cannot live
the single life
What is the significance
of the smell of a worn tee shirt
worn one night
by an estranged husband?
The smell of comfort?
No.
The smell of sex?
No.
The smell of age?
No.
The smell of possession?
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
