If waves, great, are her small lips, pink,
I will learn by reading.
Glossy and kiwi-flavoured the air around her words
like all promises of friendship ought to be.

The rhythm of her laughter is a hauling signal from the lighthouse on Île Vierge.

Out there
she keeps the black-blue sea hurdled underneath
the soles of her ballet slippers
and offers ghost ships the harbour of her eyes.