Jotu

On a bed that creaks, she listens to the rain, and turns to speak, this is not my tune, she says, the words are not new, the walls are washed green, a moon prevaricates, it knows where she's been, Paris and sunlit avenues, not somewhere Upstate, for Nostalgie de la Boue, wrapped in a cotton sheet, she pulls a long face, it reaches to her knees, outside's a Magnolia tree, this bed's like a cradle, you can smell the sea, sometimes she squeezes, from many a life taken, her manner so to speak, opens the pane.