She should have known, three hours ago
I would be basking in the Monet glow
of early spring in a winter morning
post whimsy-fuck and mellow
with the light dribbling
modern entrails upon the pages
and me with so much woke to read.
and she should have known
when she returned all sashay and flurry
with her latte and a tirade to go
from that opinionated coffee shop
at the cosseted end of town
that I would in my distant self be mumbling prose
imbibing of the canon in the library of Alexandria
a foetus in a palace womb
a gelding still suckling on a teat
or D H Lawrence scuffling naked with burning books
and fire, fresh fire, a new Chinese character upon her wrist
a blooded koan of an affirmation
red tips of incense waving a carnal gesticulation
and her gloved breasts heaving, full titted (an observation
of imagined pink, non contraire )
as she tossed her curation of monthly/weekly reviews
my compulsory reading
onto my homemade driftwood table.
and once I shifted tides when the old moon wobbled
and saw, through the frenzy of tall flaying grasses
St Mawr in full gallop, free of sweating bareback thighs
and all the classicists are out of work.
and I’m tickling Sappho with vinegar light
while Catullus peeps from under the spread—
love in a canter, then we are dead:
darling shall we wrestle.