Five Answers A Single Question
Painting by numbers, flowery and bright,
but just the odd numbers.
Some numbers are like yellow teeth.
Pegging bedlinen on the line, like hoisted
surrender flags, waving dry all day long.
Wind, wreaking havoc on apple blossoms.
Grass is their lavish rest, blossoms the colour
of a porcelain doll. Scented perfumed powder.
There once was a magic invisible cat
with eyes like yellow lamps, I tell him.
I’m not sure where to go from there.
Yes, at night I part with my bones.
When they are gone, rest comes.
It’s a type of death, I think, or like
sleeping with trees watching over you.
The language of flowers
has long gaps in the conversation.
Like saints who never speak
when spoken to
or when the hostess drinks
the last drop of chianti.
Everyone always fears
waking up the baby.
©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting #glopowrimo #napowrimo on Twitter. Image 1887, Lancashire, flowers in a glasshouse, artist ND. (no data)
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