Red blanket, green cushions;
fly-swatted afternoon;
sun-splatted; last-light-mottled
window pane dappled
with squashes of light and shade;
flickering leaf shadows batting like blind butterflies;
anemic cyclamen in a course green-and-grit pot
rough to the touch, stuffed
with leaves as greasy-backed
as a fat and broad-rumped frog meditating
in a backyard hole,
and lazy, hazy, sleep-crazy jazz
on the radio, as somnolent and as torpid as these
cherry tree leaves nodding off on a summer breeze-
the cherry blossoms that are still buds
like tight nipples shirred in
on a gathering inwards of delight...

and aching with thoughts of an afternoon swoon;
and warmly-aching and achingly-warm
under the flagrant red blanket
with red and green cushions in a tumble
on a white cane chair,
and held, swaddled like a dozing baby daughter
against the fragrant, milky breast
of the hushed afternoon.

Swaddled deep inside an abandonment
of reds, of greens,
of clabbered cream petals and buttermilk light.
Enwrapped in a blanket of leg-tousled living,
of sleep-rumpled aching,
of this dishevelled wanting,
of that greedy regretting...
enrapt in a swaddling beatitude of being.