How you begin sitting, flowered,
hands to your hair like a Loréal ad,
poppied, daisied, grey dress creased
before a zigzag of lily pads.
Of a sudden blonde, in blue and pink
under willow fuzzed dusty, spot-lit.
You’re sat on the surface like it’s
an ice chaise longue. Not convinced.
Last the grey under your jaw tells
how greenly keenly cold it is. What the hell
Hamlet/Everett, let me out. Skirt swells,
then oddly flattens to hold more petals.