I am an Irish hotel maid sometimes
On a round running track
And next time , seam along my thought streams
So they stay in place. No overspilling.
Fill my eyes with an infinite softness.
Next time is proper and I go through all the summers
In a lightweight identity. One flimsy smoothness.
Flexible. Wantonly bending over everyday sharpnesses.
Am a foggy clarity in the vase water
With a narrow, drinking stalk of streamlined time.
Needy and needed.
There are exuding clouds floating towards autumn.
You are so quiet , so palely shaded .
You are so still and next time
You know that you have flooded my land before.
Water into wine. I feel it, feel it
Happy layers of watercolour mountains over my perception.
Or the body may be everything and I could die into
Nothing, vanish
On the threshold of Guesthouse Horizontos
With its clean, waiting beds made for us
More helpless than you ever had me.
It makes me really weak.
Vanilla weak and sweet.
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