In The Rhambangle

In the rhambangle, the climbing vines
looped themselves up and through the latticework
like emotions falling from a dream.

You loved the soff birds who made their nests
in the high corners; feathered deities
without ceremony but stuffed fat on our adoration anyway.

I liked your boots, especially tucked beneath a wicker chair 
in the moonlight, lost to your feet
but called snarfdiffanous by the avante garde among the moths of local wing.

I haven't said it well, I realize. My sunglasses kept the words
after I first saw them in morning light.
It's lalamilty, so they say, making these sounds no string nor key would own,

but I keep trying, because I love you and your shossy half-turned smile.
________

for "Stuff & Nonsense' with Rommy at Real Toads. She asks that we use her invented words rhambangle, snarfdiffanous, and lalamilty. Soff and shossy are my own.