the bruise on my belly
is turning reddish with delight –
a lavish mood, with tea and jelly
that used to be the sea last night.
it is a memory
of something never born
a worn and comfortable theory
of my left breast and you – a tiny, infinitely lusting thorn.
that small bruise, with an air
of Gypsy wound, while fighting for a wife,
still gives me life and since it has been there
a morning’s second hasn’t passed unloved.
and for each other second of my way
i have my cosmic wide umbrella
to mimic all and to confuse the fray
about the bruise on my belly.