Trilogy

I
You deny your own
but my heart is at ease

but have I left the window ajar
so a solitary bird can fly around
my room one day and leave again?
before I open the door
for the cat

I was bereft
I denied my own
never wondering
the secret his look holds

it speaks of a pinching hold
on the spark of the world

he is my father
and
I

                Now know
my heart is at ease

The picture’s on the mantelpiece
Next to Picasso and India indeed.

C’est la vie
two of cups in the air
7 cup sets crossing
out comes one Sagittarian queen of swords!

eggshell walking
pursue, not wholeheartedly,
leap of faith in life and every one
sense nothing solid then
take another leap

I was bereft
I left the door ajar
the house cat ran for the street

Dawn chorus is quieter since

the father is tending the garden

no word came back to my texts

I am dreaming again

II
I eyed her patent-leather stilettos
packed a swan neck with a mark

Her Botticelli fingers adorned an exquisite stone
nestled in leaf of gold

Upper lip underfold through the rouge
caressed the air in the car

she sat in
next to the surface of
my heart

palpitating sole pressed the pedal
and ran off past the red light up
the wide avenue to Hyde park

and turned and turned and parked
by the side of a surprise

tender tips moist a little
she touched in accidental
throw of words
–          cool they felt

what air I said of wisdom of old
she beheld me in surprise and
found bespoke.

Never thought of it like so . . .

And so she showed me the book
she wrote of men in mice clothes
and how for fear of the cat

the bird barks on my window!!!

My heart is
no longer at ease!

It churns and boils like a cauldron

remember the prince’s food was spilled
and the legs of the Ching got broken?

III
The father opening the window
the day, hanging the sea on the wall

The cat quietly purring the breeze

Her left swan-neck leg against the
The leopard skin on her shoe
square-heeled and clacking the floor

was a ball of wool to the cat

pawed her open toe

she got up from the ball game
remembering some endgame
and went for the kitchen knife

to cut the thread for your spinning wheel, Moira

the thread’s measure and cut
as the weaving of the doors
of her body, or my TISSUE

Excuse me while I sneeze!
                                 – chewing seeds!

Please please come with me
to no man’s land and show me
the way out of here

to your door

fucking great big dollop of bird shit on my jaguar window!
on the road the other day, under the tree
in no man’s land

for no man’s land is her body
it’s architecture and smooth geometry

as wide as a desert to my wind
as tall as the heavens for my wings

HOoh, I need your desert for my SNEEZE!
                Oh how I want you to grow my seeds!

TRILOGY