Easy, now. The sky cannot have us.
Not yet. What I can never get
enough of is your body,
tongue that tongued my blood
when I. When younger.
Privet hedge, slut of the suburbs,
receive me now, walking, alone,
attared length of an unspent season,
witness to a pair of wrens,
wee ewers carousing the porch
with worsted findings,
nest hidden away, flanking a rogue
thought of mine, unrelayable
as the choked perimeter of prayer.about the author