and what of that constant moon,
thigh-white and breast-full?

and the prodigal mariner
adrift in search of sweet olde shores,

vexed by the springs and neaps
of seasonal tides?

our poetry is writ,
shimmering
in their relentless waters.

Clissold.

but what it is,
that salmon pink silk,

layed soft upon ripples.
twists up, orange-like

through jet-stream
rippings, butter blue

as perforations
in the clouds.

the mercury of seasons.

my map,
unraveled.

in its middle
was she there,
maiden of the globes.

her rock, sounding out
on the ice,
did unlock this city,

slowly,
like a breath.

caught in a cherub’s
compass gust,

blows me hither,
blows me thither.

till the clouds roll over
in our cups

till the tingle in your tooth
and its tinkle

on the china
till the grains of demerara are

quicksand in the sink
till then i sing

till then i think
that the scarcity of love makes a mockery of all endeavour.