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.

If I get my nose
very near to the top of your nose
I can breathe in the unadmitted love dust your simple heart exhales
for fear of the temporary.
I can there smell the beastly fragrance of
a crouching lion cub impatiently residing in your belly.

You let him chew on a rat's tail,
now and again,
to distract him;
for he would much rather play around with
the tiny lynx (smiling) in my skull.

Go ahead, tame your demon!
I will make mine strong.