You think you can start a fire
with all that intensity.
I write my lyrics all angsty blues
mixing desire into the deal;
I can, from my hideout, resemble a still life:
a cherry tree on a white mountain
a silver scrap of moon,
a hint of the skies.

The monk's lady was a jazz girl, wasn't she?
A festival, a piece of fantasia if you will.
The first contact, a pineapple yellow and green.
My mouth, an orchard where there was only ice.

Stay still.


© Jagari