Forearmed is foredefeated,

a spragged illusion that had me forever

check the silver-leafed backing.

What seemed like a vermillion mirror of sea,

the work of rash gods competing over

nose-powder and light. Salient image

as tonnage of froth, the superficial pleasure

of being someone else for the day.

What wasn’t there cannot disappear,

so why regret that awkward kiss

over the smoker’s box

when you decided to sit and clean the turnips.

One employs colours in the afternoon glare

but my feelings remain diffuse.

Each memory from the same genre,

duly sentimental,

yet indistinguishable in the over-populated world.

Does it matter who can gauge the lapping dark

for you were everything once

returning to dead layer, a general of still life

hanging on the end of the dauphine’s stays.