Whirling Dervish-like

An apple in

an apple pie

entering

the mind

through the burstline

of an open mouth

A myriad drop-

lets in a water-

fall 

An open-

ness of a para-

sol when

it rains-not

The mess

of a loch, your hair

in a lock

The locker in

the field of green

where things go

another way

round

The messiness

of

a kiss

The storm, the cin-

namon of petals of

an anemone

I once got

from you before

I forgot

your name, the waste

of time

on my part 

of

I don't-know-what

the broth

of solitude, the breath

of God,

ah!