Zaylee

Under a moon that creaks, listening to the space, he turns to me and speaks, this is not your tune, he says, the rhythms are too crude, notes stuck in between, he hesitates, knows where I've been, Paris and sunlit avenues, somewhere in Spain, all the crass interludes, wrapped in a cotton sheet, he pulls at my traces, my long legs and knees, outside a Magnolia blooms, the bed's like a cradle, love comes around too soon, somehow he squeezes, all life from my face, rescued from the sea, he's going to pay