Ian Seed

CAFÉ ADVENTURES


on Saturdays we sneak
like diamonds into our

inevitable ship in a lost storm
our lung in a grey sea:

dead dragons of contentment
hanging in deep lamps/
starved-white corpses wrapped
in leather wombs/
stag on smoky pillar
with loser's eyes/
journey down a
quaking tunnel/

maids in red like
Swiss mountains through a
massive window