Helen holds hands with thunderheads.
It helps when she's weak in the knees,
lightning running down abductors,
running down bones.
Even temple guards succumb to
such days, soft as pillows -
scarlet velveteen on silk sheets. 

Pink cyclamen bells the air,
and Helen cut her traces.

Bridget dreams the summer wind. 
Its susurrate moan rises in waves,
swells with tides of sandalwood
to chariot the night. 
She spins rhapsody around its howl, 

dawns a golden jet stream 
on spangled festoons of cirrus.

Weak knees fly off with yellow wind, 
before Bridget stills the night.
Sicily wets her lips with limoncello,
quells the rabble of heartache,
the clatter of waiting. 
She rings goblets like temple bells,
makes a sound map for lost days.
Her boat of pink sand brims in
blood oranges and cyclamen.

Lightning festoons the rabble,

Sicily finds Helen’s hand.


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