That tiny
red brick townhouse
somewhere
away from London.

Bathed
in fogged sunlight.

Watery air.

rays
in penumbras.

At the window
she is
a conflagration
of
soft yellow lasers.

The ivy creeps up the windows
from a
bottomless
rug
seeping
out of the basement grates
in
green
scrambling
capillaries,

they want to be burned
in the sun.

What joy
a snake
like me
feels
in a daydream
set in
his innocent London,

to be supplanted
by fear
lazing
with her legs up
***
open,
***** smiling
vertically
and
her
red-pink ****
an apple
on scratchy bedsheets.