paint my letters

In time the wind will come and destroy my lemons.
Cy Twombly, Rome 1987














Clean slate, brand new page, we're coming across to you.
Babble on now, feed that morning winding through the crowd.
Coolies sit in style at the dockside waiting for the boat.
Where to sail to?

Upload, lay it low now; trim those queries well.
Wind-up dolls en route to hajj where the weather suits the clothes on.
Lemons squeezed behind the veil will always make it better.
How they know.

Palm sweet; palm mats woven, spread to read the lines.
See the old ones, slim as sticks and young ones still the same.
Time is the only lasting myth that's chatting up the girl,
and she don't smile.

Shaved ice; red juice poured and taint that tummy keel.
Belts out; snare-shot salty blue band of the sea...
Time is an unintended thought that's shrouded in a sail;
and it don't blow.

These unexamined, unconvincing, sympathetic tales:
Ships will come and wreck my house paint, plaster, wood and nails.
But lemons squeezed on forward deck will one day paint my letters.
Then you'll know.