Something makes her day like a trawling net,

and she tries to understand in a rational manner –

this time.

There is a morning pain,

not that of the fertile kind.

More around the chest,

to the left.

She cups the little

red seed,

in her morning hands …

droplets of her dew

seep through her

creating fingers.

She puts her nose to it,

and closes her eyes,

and the pain in her chest


Echoes …


… echoes,


A beat,

her internal beat is matched.

Her face, hands, dew, seed …

fit like a stripy glove.


Limp petals drench her forehead,

a million millipedes stamp their feet.

Ears ring with impatience,

but gliding,


cascading hopefully.

Inky belongings,

moving and shifting,

apprehending the next part of the future …


Green rubbery stems,

jolt their wings

into the bedroom air.

Mobiles swing

in unison.

A soporific night kiss,

curling into the

tight knot

of overflowing dreams.