The Most Photographed Burning Skyscraper in America

Relatives and hair, missing flamboyants. I am re-established, riderless
and on the road. I am sad for the strokes and night
flowers, I am sad for the axes. I have worn a toga. Like air
and fallow sex you keep nibbling my ear my black cricket. Love me
you love me and love me some more.

See my breathstroked hair, see my intensive. Rain keeps falling, roses are on
the metal. Trillium winds face you down into footage and I am sad
as antique lakes, cities are tender and waist-deep in mist walled down
and tickled your theatre's naked aperture like starched and splendored
anybody's pink, pink and sweet.

The day sequel, empty noises coming in and Horation. See how
history and history's dark arrondissements so doubly loved the city's
hiatus. In the morning of lovely grief and arteries, a jeremiad
of wagons and furzed beauty is the body you keep. Like a road poem,
aubade of hate and love

a ghazal falls from the low sky and film is your very love, the tarmac
swaddled in pyre.

Julian Barnes' Flaubert's Parrot

Morganatically excited, sufficiently sentimental? Your muslin goes
everywhere. Of parrots and cicadas, arms extending to perch, you see
candied dates, dossiers, your blue blouse and serious
swans.

Rapturously assured, calling one another tu? You two courtesans
pregnant and older than opera eggs, the world is mended elsewhere. To see is
love's necropolis, your smallest Pierre ill-starred as a sick old
hen.

When did you turn on the solemn vow, your well-brushed coital
prose, smiling hand to mouth? Of red berries and spectacles, your doves
non-pictorial and too light for words, a felicity smiles in the mirror, dreaming
of beautiful birds.

Good bye you strangely shy and brightly bellied. Kiss me and
kiss me.