When I kissed her outside the Museum Café
wattle pollen settled on my lips
She smelt of new poetry books
the type you don't see too often
the type you have to order
from some exotic country
I wanted to write a poem for her
before the Matisse Blue giggle left her eyes
So I wrote her onto the tongue
of a violet-eared hummingbird
wanting a nectar fix
Then I wrote her into a pool
of glassy sweeper fish
who all turned at once
at the water's surface
making the sound
of wet bed sheets
flapping on a clothesline
And I wrote her into the sun
that went down on the hills
outside the Museum Cafe