She Sits on the Windowpane

Run your tongue across the moulded
apron feeling, bitter slime,
upper sash - sweet lungs desire
which folds your pastry city willow.
If you float across the starlight base and
mime under her wooden earlobe,
she'll stroke the laughing moon,
and calm the snowy hills.

Dress your hands and tunnel the iris,
as smoke soils your heart's belief.

She calls for windowpane, she call for ships
But she gets grey shamrock and pudding petal.

Nimbus cloud. As stile rides north,
with passive ecstasy that flames your nails.
This breezy mask could peel the rail,
could plough the skeleton that caged your youth.
Pane is ice, great vines eternal,
now introduce the swelling pulses
and charcoal cannons, launched, crabstick flaked.
Wind that touches, seals the sheath.

Now introduce the swelling trumpets
and as she sings, you reach the basket
sat in that grassy cell that glazes the fortuitous past unopened still in your milky breast.