She had an air of folded bedsheets

            Crisp, cream-coloured and insouciant

            Which I admired

            With the strength of roots

            Patient in thirst

            Surely there danced

            Somewhere within her eyes

            The light rains of the broken dove,

            Bruised lilacs, throbbing harvests of 

            Spite and neglect

            From the curvature of 

            Necessary sin

            I call to her

            And with the imprint of

            Autumnal lips, bred in rebellion,

            I might stay this lovely fugitive

            And slow, perhaps, her pace

            To our remains