i need daylight to catch the rubbing of tree leaves
on the page among licking my thumb,
bread-crumbing cigarette ash and smearing it on the page.*

keeping a **** between
your **** cheeks
while you walk from
a beautiful sunset while
sketching 'the reader'
on the front pages of the cantos
with saliva and cigarette ash
and some greenery
can sometimes feel like a
lost hand-baggage on your
weekend trip to Milan,
or a 50 quid note in your wallet;
or a sloppy french kiss:
i say, two tongues make up
shoelaces, or ribbons on a present boxed?