italic Sundays run with a poisonous doubt
a wronged wash in the what might have been
where we fidget like fleas on a rabbits hide
and verses drafted in the cross stitched sky
cannot disguise the well-practiced curses
with the pre-packed presumption of lilies
and static
abstract amongst the sheets
your limbs offer a confusion of choice
where context is lost
besides the arch and coil
of a tenderised neck
and that secret I shall whisper
into your ear?
two pronouns and a verb
you shall not remember
until the crystalline dew draws you clear
that it might be revealed in the heat of noon
or within the cold puddles of a rubicund swoon
as my fingers fund delight
from your long-drawn frown
words, refitted, rejigged, refocused, cross hair adjusted for you
