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automatic poem for the blissfully unaware (dufferin grove, 2010)


sprawled out and knees up and novels
block out the sun and stretched out
in unisex fragrance

undying persistance and influence
peaks at palm-sized (pardon the
phrase) with a secret or two,
quickly paired-off and kissing sweet
and slowing down only when nobody
is expecting it

"the past is a multicoloured taffeta."

leaning towards lines with
no traces, nobody can find
an old repeater with nothing
but knees to touch
in infinity presses
or infidelity murmers.