Malapropos, my slow mind & mouth
play cyclamen-chlamydia-Clytemnestra
like a musical scale. It embarrassed you
once when I only meant flowers,
only then meant something
of how things turn, on & against –
Tender is the morning
quiet, leaves gently
offering their shapes open
to small hands: hello. Here, gloss & flesh
sudden in the glass;
waves come through sails or sky;
the cat turns to gull or glimpse
of fox. The maiden a crone
like some plain punchline. I knew this
before I ever did.
Image: Gabrielle Ludlow / flickr
