Dinner dishes on the deck table
are a minor chord, a breeze ignored
and the minutes lengthen
with diminishing wine.
The maple catches a falling sun,
shakes it onto latticework ground,
our eyes are drawn to clouds
drunk with evening blood.
I see jazz, as though this scene
is a score tossed from a window,
in so many riffs and twisted
notes—fractured sense non.
You have a brush, your pallet
filled with colours dancing
a dance of words leaked
from passed memories of love.
And we’re thrown through
the prism, emerging bifurcated.
You whisper how moments unite,
I know them separately.