Book to Mind

There you are, wrestling with a wardrobe, kicking a waste

basket, flopping upon a waterbed. Your ears, small as

quarters, as round as plums. We valet park, filled with

vanity, veiled in silk. I recline in such essence, eager to

entertain. You smile, head for a table, slow to sip a

martini. How has this happened? so afield, pondering

sofabed love. Our minds, religious carpet, smoking on a

patio. Days are sweetly grim—something’s impending;

for motion was harnessed, where love searched a hope

chest. I address rain upon an easy chair, somewhat

nonchalant, filtering through gestures—our saga. Love

confessed that nights are long, yearning for more; plus,

love is so young, kneeling near a lounge chair. We freed a

phantom, forfeited chains, ever to meet at picnics. Life is

different this way, to morph conviction, as square as newborns.