.Beats Me.

Beats me, the colour of his eyes.

I remember only flocatti,

Dirty, spiking me like thistles

So that I blew my marble dust

out and over

his skin.

Beats me, the number of branches

On the lemon tree outside.

I remember the neck was not familiar,

And how the seconds rattled by,

boulders in the sands of time.

And it struck me like a tomahawk

That I was getting blurry round the edges,

That my fingers were thickening,

That my life no longer rhymed.