Dinner in Bed
Everything occurred, many times, and continues
each night, a whisper, used to offer velvet
a sheer plunge of skin read as an invitation
broken, only, by a hand at a cheek, nuzzled like a cat
Don’t be long, I’ll be waiting
left alone in expectation, as a spider and silence
an unmoving thought remained as light diminished
face to face with darkness, deep in sticky heat
a taste resurfaces like remembered fruit
when we shed our sheets, and nothing is seen
not, even, the tongue-in-groove woodwork above
just the felt pressure of finger and thumb
lips to lips, not spooning but salivating
as always, for the meal yet to come
Art in Work
I
A monk turns a stick at a bowls edge
makes it sing in a steady, even, pitch
a banshee tone is summoned at the rim
as if, a spirit lived in hand-beaten brass
II
A driving instructor tells a pupil
The car is an extension of you
where a sweating novice judders
he clanks gears with sharp hisses
III
If an arm is tense when punching
like a spring clipped in place
kinetic energy remains held
by muscles fighting each other
IV
When decanting whisky from a bottle
a single stream is preferred to a flask
so, barely a noise patters on the inside
and not a drop is wasted from leaks
V
By looking down at damp ditches
past brambles, many trails can be seen
how heavy booted have crumbled
as the light footed skirted verges
but seeing both, you can choose
a path that suits your purpose
Flight of the dragonfly 