Morning

Countable hours moving

over the foot of the bed.

First: you lick my toe-tips with your

snake-tongues, crawl up inside

my sleep-slime, start wiping clean

the dream-grime.

Making way for real lies

that rise.

Blocks of flats and woollen hats

and yellow margarine.

I leap from your ledges, Morning,

into icy open water, sheet of glass,

not yet unfurled, not yet tautened

for the kicking, and so

I am kicked.

I make limp work

of your smile, Morning.

I am the pile of clothes

at the shadowed edge

of your lusts, of your moving

hours, calloused hands

pushing through

to the other side.

I can float.

I am nameless.

Clothes sop cold

with dew at dusk. We are

two people parting,

hands thrust deep

in strange new gifts.

Reviews

[John Alexander McFadyen]

You seem to have a way with the writing of abstract poetry which conceals issues but also pastes them to walls. This one feels like someone awakened to the desires of another when they are not quite awake, up for it or even consenting?