Take me by the hand and be led to
18 different shades of green.
My, oh my-rtle, oh what a shade.
I’ll let you touch the leaves, be ever so gentle.
A sheen pours itself over the print,
the light bouncing off the page triggers a glow.
An ambient glow.
You notice the ease to turn the page,
like you are holding less,
The beads of sweat roll on to the paper,
as you are reaching a climax,
They have given you concussion,
Hold these with nothing other than your hands.
Take a firm grip and pinch the sides,
run your hands down the sides of the page.
you have rubbed so hard you leave with
a shade of myrtle on your fingers.
The leaves of this print have become
I think we have come to understand this together.
Take one of my hands,
and I’m sure we assume that we both recognise
18 shades of green, 17 of which are not myrtle.