When the Wind Is Southerly, I Know a Hawk from a Handsaw by threshold of faith

I splintered the landscape of midday
by splashing colours from a tumbler.
I charted on a tray of aspic
the slanting cheekbones of Atlantis.
Upon the scales of an iron turbot,
I found ladies’ lips, aloof.
And you, could you have played a nocturne
using a drainpipe for a flute?



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