beneath the boughs in the forest of arden of the world

dreaming on the bed seriously, saying nothing. i look at her full lips, her dark skin, her thin fingers spread like a starfish. i bury my nose in the woman of her neck, she puts her hand on my beard, moves her fingers, i and think forever she'll be a dark ocean, like every woman, a dark ocean, and no more can a dark ocean explain itself than...

this is the book we read together (the glossy-real illustrations). we were two tumbled bodies on the bed, two dreamy forefingers in the air, her black hair spread out like a stranded mermaid through her bandanna.

in the bedroom she ties on her bandanna, sings softly, i grab her hips, her head falls back, i nudge her off balance, she smiles, twirls around, pushes me, walks away, says she likes me.

she'd put her bandanna on when we arrived home. rose, black, roses on the stage of victorian orgies, black.

in the cab we're quiet, both of us thinking perhaps of the ride, the blur of the city, the premonition of her music set to a caravaggio dimension, hipping silently, dreams woven out of the movie we've seen.

slices of pie after the movie (first time suggesting it she laughed, thinking i was joking). she talks about growing up, her mother, living in london, wants to go back, wants to take a trip, all sass, coffee, acting young, poor, searching for something.

we watch a french film. the only people in the cinema, lounging with our feet up, shrouded in our outside mysteries, sharing popcorn.