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