‘My brow is damp
likes stars in April.
The rain falls
so lightly that
I am no longer flushed.
Winter’s fire
flickers as it sweeps through the desert,
myself too tired
to follow.’
Ingeborg Bachmann

against the perfect
image of your global
artichoke head –
etienne de silhouette –
any chance of
backdrop possible –
for thine be the glory
arisen purpley thing –
given your dewdrop
brain bursts in
florets of incan-
descent singing &
borrowed etruscan
décolletage –
ravishing in a risque
ruskinesque
barbecue sauce

7-8-15