She loves his slender hand,
and notices the fullness of his tones,
unswallowed before now, doctored,
a tonic to the faintest light.
These are his A1 years
memories built into dozing colours,
each one a mood, a row,
a sullen face at breakfast.
And in the bowls: gunmetal-slate,
developing to yellow-rouge.
Always backward-looking glances.
She reinvents a last dusk,
when her love clogged-up his eye,
invigorations of the studio light, slushes.
And still there are these light-quake greens
chasing away the sallowed dreams
paring from mullberry, or black.