Steve weaving his usual and unique magic.
Thought bubbles must be punctured gently,
deflated with a fine molecular needle.
She lets me do the shopping at the markets,
the hens are in my charge, I sweep the floors,
but I’m a prisoner in her house.
On the crooked kitchen shelving, potions bright,
alluring clues, magic herbs and condiments.
To prepare Bahian fish, she says.
Her eyes are jungle camouflage, her tidal laughter
breaks in waves when nothing is amusing,
mysteries are woven in her hair.
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So while I was pondering what exercise I could do to work off the crazy amount of food I have eaten today (I blame the weather. It suddenly turned cold like autumn, after unseasonably warm weather, like autumn. But now it’s cold, like autumn), I found this.
This manicured violence
that entertains our peace
I long for relief
there’s no relief…