Lemon sun through
the reflection
of a window,
the hills
breathe cherry smoke,
the wind blows
chemical kisses.

You stroke my palm
with green fingers.

She spoke four
languages
behind my back.

It is still cheating,
you said, Just because
she is a woman.
I am not above
hitting a woman.

I pressed my idiolect
between
paper feathers.

On our return, an old
woman sits
by the roadside
holding a cardboard box
filled with coloured paper
and small yellow birds.
Fortunes.