I'm vulnerable to the promise of delight
and music and myrrh and mysticism
and the reading of the stars.
The polished metal of the stove-top and its pots gleams enamel and aluminium and obsession.
There is a secret lore to my tobacco flower.
It bears hope for seed.
I have total personal freedom as much as any other dog on its day.
We now employ a blend of old-style practices,
while our child laughs at the marvels of the new.
Everything evaporates when I touch you.
For Steinbeck, Hillman and Cook.
First published today on my PublishOx and here.