The Yellow Villa Poem by Antony Rowland

The garden flamingos unfold their pink, but
I still can't get you out of my granite windowsill,
curtains that only facecloth half the light
of Olomouc, Kozel pastures, where
from the top of this sad oblong
an evening plane is a moving star.
For sleep you have crumbs in your eye
and you make me spill the negotiation
of a hairpin bra in The Yellow Villa.
I always like a gold oratory
despite your crisp airbag exploding
and fountaining: we've been growing holes
in ourselves all afternoon where the water
clings to the leaves falling on the oriel,
řijen, October, rutting, štika,
listopad, sour tart and ham-ribbed
the potent funge of hermelín. I
don't know why the meatballs were cold.
They just were. And the beautiful monsters,
the giraffe women laugh grazily by the kašna.
An aeroplane is a bar, laddered.
Staré mĕsto squeezes with your Moravian arm
and the lime trees in Michalská,
which has a very high cherub count
unlike our recent afternoons, paku paku:
my ledvinky are battered with ghosts.
Would you like that with gherkins?
The plane morses the tree-lined dark