Poet and Painter

 



I stared then , for the longest hour yet
before my headlights uttered,
“You’re a blank vinaigrette”.

Colourless, prism-lit acidity,
the jet black lotus, contrasts
your transparent skin, deep

As it had fallen into drowning pools,
where our time should have ended,
at the cemetery 

And yet, oddly, I felt alive that day,
when your visors met with mine,
irises, matching thanks

Between one way windows, upon their sills,
a poet, and a painter,
could have been something more.