The Dream Distiller

Tulips cast in pewter shake
On a mantle thick with dust.
Mortars have the rooftop quake.
Curtains tickled, hands relieve
Lonely skin glued to cold sheets
By the juice of orchid's pearl.

Hungry fingers trace the germ;
Map the theatres page by page
Til the fruit of labour won
Nails the flush and coats the thumb.
Resin wrought in solitude
Clams to amber, thought intact,
Like mosquitoes can get trapped.
I'll be that.