THE COLOURS ARE DIFFERENT:
She walks with folded arms, homegrown hair, sculptural, solid.
Perfect picture, snow white, crisp & clean, eyes concealed
behind bug-eyed shades circa 1968, did nothing for me then either.
I heard you on the radio, still alive, like a satellite.
Cars removed their roofs, squeezed into tiny spaces, waved
to one-another observing Summer’s etiquette, following
languid curves. The backs of molten black-top snakes rippled.
Listening to Maja S. K. Ratkje