Ena

In a room that creaks, listening to the rain, she turns to speak, this is not my tune, she says, the song is too crude, walls washed green, the moon hesitates, it knows where she's been, Paris and sunlit avenues, not somewhere opaque, free from the Bues, wrapped in a cotton sheet, she pulls at my traces, her long gait and knees, outside's a Magnolia tree, the bed's like a cradle, you can smell the sea, sometimes she squeezes, from life taken, a manner to sleep easy, love marks her day. .