Thursday, 16 July 2015


You trimmed the stems 
of the bunches of roses
one reddish pink; 
the other peachy orange
so they wouldn't overwhelm 
the squat, Vermeer-blue jug.

Look what happens 
when you bring me flowers,
you said, as you kissed me 
all over; the evening breeze
caressing the architrave 
of your high-ceilinged room.

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