Poppies

I spent my days with maddening music,

Under the reign of cheap lips and poppies,

Drowning out your song, your sent still lays thick

On my pillow case, and in dark lobbies.

But closing my eyes, I still see your face.

A soft blur of flesh tones and mournful eyes,

balmy air on your skin with satin grace. 

And I think of the blisters on your thighs,

And of the imperfect cracks on your hands,

Which were ones my wabi-sabi treasures. 

But the golden hours lost in far lands, 

with my amorous passionate pleasures. 

And I will rot with the weeds at the bay, 

While music and poppies lull me away.