the stain of your being hovers above my head
like cirrus like rainfall that refuses to depart
that you might lie there, lie here
along the meanders of me

smelling of danger and red wine roses
no doubt, without doubt
like warm red wine-blood
on a winter snow flake
that melts like butter over flame
that melts over the icicles and shakles of us

that history or now i cannot tell
ejects a funny runny watercolour
of bamboos and lotuses of us
of us lying supine atop a glassy sea
or of a cigarette left crushed underfoot

and the stain which rises off your body
sublimates dew like
like those knitted woolen jacket
that unravels at a tug at a pull
unravels me

this drug induced sleep in which
like a lover seduces and beckons
a haughty slave, an abused woman
a love-child, yet smiling atop a bicycle

wind in my hair i run and hide
in between the grot of the drain
that empties the vestibules of the heart
and amidst that torrent
that manic pulsing torrent
i drown i drown
and grasping
i die