'Planetary, your skin's peach-blow, turned a fraction,
onto the street.. They say it's risky out there,
on the steppe rich corduroys go, soft pink,
& settees by the window I can take or leave,
sun spilling off ranges at 7. 40..
but your plum mouth? Bye.
The sun's softened by the mist now, but I'll put out
the milkbottles. I imagine it frosty there,
you across the park. If I was to paint those parkmen
sliding from roses or shrubs they'd be nasty pieces
of work, and you a sheet from a new magazine,
a nice airbrushed cerise or soft pink by the steps,
and on the right plane when creased the low sun under
our silver birch tree would catch your skintones. '