Pure honey never finds it’s self. The corner table cleaned,
linen white, silent stainless knives innocent as petals.
Sunflower head, mouth wide amazed. The sight of a chandelier sun
hanging dull apologies in the polite silence of empty rooms.
Will you walk with me in the rain, get wet together? A secret
activity, a violent pink dress, a poet, a key, a rose with a
‘Cry To Rome (From the Tower of the Chrysler Building)’