Peter Richards


In the tawny rustic sun your gellato
looks wrinkled and devil-spit capable
whereas the cocoon of your crushed
cinnabar tube seems finely gauged
and crocheted to resist the wrestled
nozzle of my arid horn not holding
a spoon or adorned with multiplying
ethnographic designs whose numbers
are saying tonight's open ribbed yoke
would look so absolute juxtaposing
alternate panels on a whisper-sheer
oxblood skirt made for the fetching
georgette two of us both with a wide
smocked waistband and a verdigris
silk lining that actually breathes.

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