(for Ahila)

If I smell her skin

like the moon's amber skin

the colour of a small flame

I never want to go home

The pious purples of dusk

touch a single tree

The air is an evening animal

Thick Opiate

Smell the

Thunderheads mass

The green young padi

of the low country stir

and like lit universes

Those Eyes that eccentrically circle

They are out to lick the stars