Frangipani oil slips greedily into skin,
I dream of birds of paradise.

You send me poems doubled as strings of pearls,
bile falling from your twice shut lips

as glib as April showers.

My skin rainbows golden on a tapestry of light,
perfume riding high and exotic in these rain soaked

London nights.

The moon smoulders on, anoints our Western sky
swinging pale and twisted reminding me of ocean,

blackness of equator sky; the Gods singing.

We are perfect instruments fine tuned to heaven,
sifting synapses stroking body length,

finding only discrepancies.

Alone, frangipani, white flowers pink petals,
sea, surf symmetry, and your eyes holding me.

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