Lying Low, Flying High
To be roused by a handful of beads
and on the carpets were strewn petals
ears filled with the fiddler and the bongo
touches, blue songs arrested from the night
at the marrakesh of a friend's apartment
gold spangles and red pills and pillows
all this evanescent scene foretold by Roz
from her beatnik couch, hand on her clavicle
a relic, this memory, an ancient find, so very old
clacking of beads, night resting upon itself.
Trulyfool
Posted over on his site Light at the End of the Tether
Listed as #99 over on Magpie Tales 63
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