However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,

Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,

Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes

Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off

The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.

Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make

Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air

When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,

A frosted cake layered with cars and people, rosetted with gulls, points out toward quiet afternoon islands.

After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you

The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.

Blonde head under baobab. Sun under shade. You sit on an African day,

My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.

It was a wet signature. Full of emotion. Full of eroticism. Still wet, with sweat