Aden on the orchid bed, night bridge
to frilled, pirouetting versions of his past.
Aden on the lotus petal, diecast
holding the wrapper of a thrown-away frozen mango,
people below the colour
of children’s comforters
outside the village, the silence east-sloping.
the silence will partner him soon enough
and wager his chewed-up lips
on musical scores above the sky
no pull to the air’s riptide.
the moonsense will ease him down
giving him living room, and a gentle light to drink.
and why not? the ravers still stream through the
skeletal forest
on their fourth high edge to edge.
the strafing still fools, the country flashes on and
off.
within, in the crosshatch, and good Lily
and her lone lover-son…real Aden, smoothing the frills out.
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