How faintly her body takes on the dress like lint on the air, a faerie mote and the empties take on a form junked on the table. The storm is only over when disabled after the exclamation of the rain, a dancing staccato across the pea shell roofs, the late shadows are finding their way home. The sooner to be not seen. No one will ask where they hunger, where in the blending must they are new at home, formless, sly, one and the same the darkness massed. Wetting thought with memory on the morning climb, the heights are hid, dreaming of colour in the later sun, fingering the limn the shadows slope into the trees, the unrendered reign of dark parked for later like high hats. The birdsong still half sleeping. Inductively one foot in yesterday. In the coffee scented morn' now with a bay tan ablated from the warm leathette, I have heard a field of vaginas praying talk to the very coloured sun. Her ova hid. Have I pitched a hide and out waited the wait inside? But no they will not show no kiss and tell but in malarkey grow, my back so turned I cannot chase them home withhold the perfumed air or rid us of the pollinating chair. Back to the front, shape shifter that I am my depleted face to hand, I decided to be a tourist without direction or distance or time so I will parley only to names, a knuckle slug lying to my DNA I ran.