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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