The S Word
The cups and frills of tête-à-têtes
at my door only make me want
more. Deeper. Longer. Your eyes
full of looking. That sweetness
in the light piques my appetite;
a lick of salt, sap knocked back
in a shot glass. Didn’t we both clock
the pussy willow at the same time?
I wrap your scent around me
like a shawl, walk out into the stretch
of a lost afternoon, to the tune
of ipod-shuffled finches, Larkin’s
stutter. Your F sharp charm, here
and away, the wink of your eye.