By D.S. West
Sheets, creamy, this peculiar bedroom atmosphere.
Silk. Garnacha and ganja, which sounds like dragons—
It’s too many tannins, my brain aspires to starry sponge bath,
until then I struggle as a window-washer, scouring the
what I see, reflected, in & with the how I see it, molten mirror
to the stars, forgetting and remembering seasonally. It’s
photons, narrative and glass,
eighty-one Lynch movies later, Merlin beams in
from his respective decrepit cliché, an allegedly
dumb-dead story about incest, royalty and Avalon,
soap opera shit, but, a romance,
in the window-washing sense,
replete with window-washers
toting buckets, sponges.
D.S. West is a writer, artist, and hopelessly lost pedestrian, presently hopelessly lost in sunny Boulder, CO. A list of his publishing credits is available at icexv.wordpress.com.