Holiday
Spilled
purple on the
cliffs like
wine and
green
as if
peppermint
chews have
melted down
a gas fire,
white person
pink
light, full as
a teardrop,
my heart
clawed from
wet sand
smashed into
pies. I
wouldn’t be
surprised if
Eric Rohmer
fell on my
towel to
explain the
inevitability
of going
home, in our
peripheral
vision girls
spading
ribbons of
ciné film
from rock
pools, a boy
blurred
like
Camembert,
straddling
a moat.
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