Books of colours like books of sex positions,

directing perception of pleasure and visions,

putting feelings to thought and words to feelings,

dissecting the process of wild lovers’ peelings

and sunsets and wine and plums from the vine,

stretched out over concrete steel promenade

drapes brushing over textured facade,

somewhat to the right and somewhat to the left,

flying for a week leaving own bereft,

least of those being that the bed is still made