Busy Old Fool

Poetry, Pulpit

The sun behind glasses
Its sparkling eyes warming, lighting
A soft bed and you’re snug in a duvet,
Or spreadeagled mid-day in calm
Breathing light beauties in a balmly world
On white sheets like an angel’s skin,
Pillow of pure cloud, damp and darkling
With your storm of hair,
And the sun takes off his glasses
Tickled by the sight through his bedroom window,
Eyebrow flared wondering what will you do
Lying snug in your duvet of thighs and wet kisses,
Tries to warm you with his bright eyes
As he’s met by an eclipse from the bouncing moon.
And he thinks he hears your song, your howl
To the night, wishes it was his.
The pretty old, busy old sun, up in his window
Shards falling off his beard to illuminate the dirt
On his floor with stark pallor, like broken seeds
In grey stone dust. He doesn’t know if you
See him. He’s too bright to look at, but you feel
His stare and wriggle, clearing the clouds
With your hips, drinking the rain before it falls,
Keeping the sun here, among your ruined
Bedclothes.

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