She brought me back a lemon from Naples,
So I put it in the freezer
Without quite knowing why.
When the freezer broke,
The lemon grew mould
And I couldn’t bring myself to tell her.
Next time we met she looked at me
With her citrus eyes,
And I saw in them
The soft coastline of Sorrento,
And all the apricots of Capri.
So I told her I’d made lemonade
And watched her smile at me.
On the Floor with Her
Being in room 1840 on the main floor of the Tate Britain
Is quite similar to being in her bedroom, on the floor with her.
We sit on her carpet together, I pretend to write poetry and
She hums while she paints (there is jazz playing, and it suits her).
I imagine her swaying to the music with Ophelia and the Lady of Shalott and I laugh.
“Why are you laughing?” she asks me without removing her brush from the page.
I can’t think of what to say, so I say nothing, and she doesn’t ask again.
The Tickets are Half Price Now
I will use my eyes as a projector and look at you long enough
To screen a feature film of my thoughts into your mind,
I will make you my cinema.
And the critics will compare it to the silver screen days
And Truffaut will cry out in applause from his grave
And as the lights come back on and the credit roll plays
You will turn in your seat,
Fix me with your gaze,