Sometimes it's better in our clothes.
We are together as we are not,
we come as we are.
The sky is immense and frail,
we are full of lists and feedback,
there are no private numbers.
Why does everyone care?
The smell of sun is in the
lees.
A flower is a flower, flowers now
becoming a book of consummations.
As light enters a house,
there's nothing to return in it.
Though it's never enough, it's real
as preference is need or
choosing you.

When I wake, wake flowers
this great fête of fumery.
I bend or pick to take or offer
this and that but it's plenty
if more, if less, if enough.
We can be together,
we choose and we drink.
Dust the song from your coat,
we are tissue, whole as we are.
Extravagance may be
tender or of such amplitude
as sounds along leaves, your hands
brushing my sleeves.
We are deciding among buttons.
They come in bright colours.

Jill Jones