She told me of the horse that flew The horse with a name that Egyptians knew She told me of the hanging tree With roots that cried and caressed the dew She told me tales of a lightening storm That flashed an Eskimo cold to warm
And in her eyes I saw other stories Just as important as Dali's glories
Jane sat on a pine kitchen chair in the corner of the room. In her left hand she held nineteen ninety-nine, in her other, my eyes. I kissed her on the cheek and asked her a question.
She told me of a white paper brick That glided through air six foot thick She told me of Christians that got wasted at lent That prayed for the light through a gap in a tent She told me of Magritte, ******* and Turner And a boy in India selling organs as an earner
And in her eyes I saw other stories As bright as the Ursa's universal glories
I asked Jane another question and she fused It must have been the sixth time in a month Gordon Fussey Written by Gordon Fussey (M)