In a back
room scratching paintbrushes on
the smell of summer clings on
while the strings that tie,
a mothers apron.
inside tangled wires.
A chemical imbalance? Maybe,
somewhere a dog pined for you?
at the garden gate
the smell of gardenia and fuchsia, a hedge
A portrait scratched on canvas
you don’t look the same from this angle
at this distance of years, in this light,
you’ve changed, a tussle of thatched hair,
now a dark globe.