In a burl of perpetual bloom, the curr of her curls of her hair unfurl; locks of hair bloom to mourn saliferous morning tongues, unwithered and tender.

Such a dry land and such dry hands, midwives and women and dry dying thighs, dried and died thicket land and hands; ‘Will ever there be a bloom?’

Of roads and grass blades of grass, I have know so many mornings when the sun, so much sun and fresh morning drafts; pillowcases and ears and brown curly hairs, kissed and hugged the sun and toes, our toes and dripping noses dropped atop tea and shared toast, over coffee with cigarette smoke.

Spread across a morning shared and tender, spread across a rug, spread and spared of questions, her brine eyes brown eyelids ebb upon her eyes in the bloom of a rotten sun.