Jonathan Hayes

The Lilies

of the window

are rubbed in the
accident of the dishes

the repeating
flies of the wind

the paper birdsong

and the lilies
have been calling

burrowing night

by the tree and blanket

while the cold undressed
dishes of supper

are being flown
by wings of stone

folded lilies

the tug of thistles

return to SHAMPOO 21