Detained in your own portrait
You hang in the open hammock of afternoon.
You’re within the text. One eye
Folded, screening the sun, the pricking smoke.
The suave sweep of loose sarong
Extends the early shadows. Unconsciously.
And we continue. Our silent words
Pushed by your presence to the
Side of your glass which remains
Fixed. Lip-stained. Staring. Reflecting
The day and tangled flavours of your
Book as you turn each page.
Reaching through the orange shades
As you mark your spot, on our day.
Away from the house, the star is reluctant
Pushed from its window of sky.
It stalls at the morning’s shelf, letting
Fabled light open history. Again.