The cooling bodyshrinks within its skin,white tissue that folds,creases. Wrinklesline the surface,mountain rangesat a distance,etched into the moon. And again you askhow to fall for thisflawed body. Here is the secret:set down your spyglass,lower your mirror.You are luminous still.
The white box plugs into my laptop.It uses a USB. Settings includeengine, rainfall, birdsong. Press the right buttons and seashore runsfive hours at a time. A hush so large and shapelessthoughts lose purchase and drown. Ah bliss. No quiet touchesthis nothing noise.
Her pink palms clasp a pomegranate and the flushedflesh basks. Yes, the sleepy warmth of fingers seepsinto ripe belly, soaking ruby pulp. Ah-me-oh-my,to be a thousand seeds stirring in deep jelly. Flesh basks, yes. The warmth of sleepy fingers sweepsa quivering handle, reducing bursting vesiclesbefore me. A thousand seeds stir and weep in jelly,spilt at …
I was half-hidden on the half landing, when it appeared, under the bulb: a skinned rabbit keening on the kitchen table, a brood parasite that gaped and writhed. That greedily petitioned her to open wide. Craning, I saw her press the savage slash (a pink-lipped supernormal stimulus) to her side. It latched (headfirst). I held …
Cross-legged and urgent,the man beneath Lambeth Bridgerecommends we (all of us) make love,surrendering the sex we owe one another. How disappointing then,that we linger in long sleepand joggers brush shoulderswithout peeling to the knees.
Gravity: tugging our luggage, bidding us settle downAs a new crowd, as doctors and developersConverging on the Clyde, reminiscing about pills,Both taken and prescribed. And No one sighs, ‘Mine’s a small world.’ But I could.Because I know/know of/once knew these men,Though never knew them quite like this,Beaming brightly. What radiance! What display! What’s gilded these …
The nurses told your children first,Passed on the news, passed on the taskOf calling, corralling the massOf scraps you left behind. By no means Complete Collected Works,But hardly either a meagre sum: a hive,Four degrees, a swarm of type,Assorted memories and sons. Your greying boys will tell the beesHow, well after harvest, you still stirredSweetness …
The city unspools,Loosing strange trackside shanties: Hunched-over hills and buckling sheep,Oily green and dusty ochre, Blank country that repeats itselfLike rhythmically shuffled postcards. All that, Until the tunnel gulps,Pressing us in peristalsis. Then, red-ringed jelliesReplace the whole world.
You smell like garden,She says, meaning soil,Wood and water. True, I have been at play,Breaking planters whichCould not withstand rain. She flowers; I bend to tend.You smell like garden,She says, again.
