James Walton #69 Salt and Vinegar Please

Some things aren’t a colour

but more like that misty fetish

when you peel a mandarine,

and a fog from Rumi’s pool

takes a moment out of the air.

The world is stalled on an errand

by a pithy beguile of wobble

a then coming back forever,

webbed over and through

a honeycomb lacquered with it.

Leaving you espaliered on a smile

warm bricks against your back

out front the crisp ironed world,

has winter in a laminate

as perfect as the first hot chip.

Your scalded tongue

mouthing more.