Joe Three

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, words stuck in between, the moon hesitates, it knows where she's been, Paris and sunlit avenues, somewhere in Spain, free from the intrudes, wrapped in a cotton sheet, she pulls at my traces, her long legs and knees, outside’s a Magnolia tree, the bed's like a cradle, it ignores how it creaks, sometimes she squeezes, all the life that’s taken, still from the sea, love marks her day.