See the crown slipping over one eye. This is an opera-star in full flow. This is an ouverture. My lungs swell with a lipstick-coloured fruit, my song ripens. My cry is rose. My land floods with rich words, bingeing poetry. My touch is toxic and abundant, my clutch wide. My sweep generous. My hips whitely overflow from the straight band of my jeans. Watch winter feed a metamorphosing maggot. (However, this is not an epitaph. Life is incredibly short and inflexible. But December doesn't close).