Simpson created dream patterns between the stars
He painted a summer moon orange on Cora’s back
And sang in harmony with the solitary dawn birds blind
Deep in his magic garden
As she lay on her crisp white sheets
Simpson painted wailing peacocks
On Cora’s breasts
Until a droplet of her sweat
Inhibited their flight
And dulled their deep display
He began to weave his perfumed wisteria
Into her maiden hair
Before he too was rendered senseless
By the warm touch of the night air erotic