nothing

feline notes
in a scarlet night

Black of silk
to swallow the light
of warm vortices
and half words
to envelop
vibrant flesh

strong brush strokes
on a rough canvas breathlessly
wanting to be imptrinted
by touches of oil
multicoloured and certain
to invent these
chromatic impulses thus
always ours
crisp notes
to set the momentary rhyhm
of pure skin.
And the rest is naught.