Your gardenia hair
in turbulent waves
of chocolate certainty.
I glance your vapors
in small quantities,
a mad state of disarray
my entrails strewn
like a child's toys.

Life is a vandal
shaping change to
serve ourselves.
We are none the worse
for our intensity.
I suffer the timetable
in crunch of solar plexus.
I hide in weeds.
Your egret legs follow
a duplex of steps that
don't find anything
hard to believe.


Sara Fielder © May 2018