Alicia

Do we think of others, while screaming down the phone, the cross we bear of mothers, prayers for all those, whose thoughts are blown, on summers' blue clothes, drumbeats on marshlands smothers, where we dance alone , men flit like flies uncovered, we can only suppose, by water and evening’s pheromones, what they try to impose, our days filled with lovers, Guggenheim, Tate, Prado, playing cards for trouble, our hand a signalled force more than we can know a river runs its course, questions how we grow ?