My breast is wet / with wine and droops / like a greyhound’s tongue / The nipple expectant as / pursed lips
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