Return to Marrakech

I take my seven days paint each of them yellow, but you take Monday and make it a watercolour of blue and weeping. Leaving you and your Daddy's shell would be like Moon leaving tide. Fish images, flapping for breath, a surface of beauty yet something is wrong Venus is hidden behind a girl. Touching me with ten tombstones. Waking the dead in me yet putting you to sleep, you love me like a dog we need each other. My seven days of your one. You call me Daddy when I hold you, forcing my hands where Devils played until we met in the Spring of 56 and they slept until your fall of 95. Yasmine candles, made her remember Marrakech, and through their burning she remembered us, how we were, things we said, and that one night in eight years she painted my friday yellow and Devils and Daddy's slept till Saturdays watercolour sailed through my canvass of wrinkles.