John Parras

Curled scaffolding in love with scalloped edges,
yoghurt conversations, the verdicts of seaweed.

Monday’s hopes turn on sudden fingernails
toasting autumn’s champagne foliage.

Carry the miniature crescent moon;
brew bracelets and husbands in sunlit pools

so hot little hollers of protest can’t be heard.
Insist on rough cocktails and orange peels.

I whir dangerously, chant bigly
over your furious milk-neck,

a slap on the brakes in heavy traffic.