James Walton #42 Too sleepy for work in the herringbone

the smell of hay

is seaweed and sex

rolled out like

washing basket ducks on a wall

falling spilled laundry clouds

your waist untangling preludes

the violin’s turn at handle

my hands too naively cold

for this bow to play

the sunglasses of autumn

as trees resist winter

bees tango clover

drop and rise in saunter

these days make lazy milk

tasting of lips

and sautéed camembert