The lilies that appeared
at my door
until I stopped
As I turned
they looked out of the rain-trodden window
and waited for my eager eyes:
to return; to massage the cold pane.
until the lilies whisper-
when the gentle whisper turns into a breeze.
I’ll turn around and bathe in the aroma
of the soft, pure petals.
The nectar-filled, cordovan bananas balance from the arm and
I’m thinking of how the nectar will
stick to my palms like syrup,
how it will stroke every wrinkle of my hand.
I want to create a collage with my ox-blood stains.