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 here.