RED FLOWERS

Once a year
a crimson canopy
irrepressibly
unfolds itself
and the walls
of the house
flicker like flames.

And because I want to
and because I know how to
I take you out
amongst the red flowers.

A squall of rain
catches us unprepared
and running for cover.

You shout and laugh
and dissolve with me
into all things bright
and transparent.

This year I'd like to believe
it was me who planted
the red flowers in your hair.

THE BED

On this bed that ought've
Been junked
after my parents'
had junked it
and given it to us
we continue to recount
what we've got to show
for being where we are.

We laugh we cry
we're all intact.

We ought to dump it
before it caves in
under our bums
or becomes homicidal.

Let's sleep on it you say
and I read aloud
this story
by Ernest Hemingway.

Whether it's an insult
or a compliment
you kiss me mid-sentence
and fade away
dreaming I guess
of Mt Kilimanjaro
hot dry plains
and skies swarming
with tsetse-flies.

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