My breast is wet

with wine and droops

like a greyhound’s tongue

The nipple expectant as

pursed lips in purple glass

Round and heavy with lamentations

A touchstone

To listen out for the right words

in the drowning clef

and belittled melodies of

day-to-day ennui and tea

It grows unlike the sunflower

in my garden it grows

strong and beguiling

a slight brush with wit and

the scent of lovers’ longing

Ghosts in my living room are

writing prose

And they make me wonder

for whom I dance and light

candles in bright rooms

and whether sense is something

to be made at all from anything

Now, I am transfused in the

wallows and shallows of

Arleta’s music

softened buttered spinning on

rolled ‘r’s and sidestepped triplets

which make me more hungry

than anything