Stag in the Sanctuary


And speaking of seven-year itching, been
thinking, ex-husband, inching into position, in
fact, considering crippling my hand going
at it again, even, backstroking, I’d
take your seconds any day, just
like you took my breath away,
then, just so I could taste
you on him, my next one,
rapid-fire succession of some unsuitable men
ever since, settling for an anonymity


of underwhelming hims, nameless lover after
nameless lover tastelessly lusted after, taken
in your absence, in my hunger,
for so long having been hung
up, starving for your presence, reminiscing,
unrepentant, questing for insatiable affection’s illusion,
settling for feasting on anonymous flesh
scented with your lingering essence, fantasy
tempting satisfaction to blossom to fullness
of bloom your flavour’s flourish, to


bask in its fluorescence, sweating bulleted
number ones, charting this tongue’s darting
across that sunsetting sequence of brunet-pelted
chest awash with tanned increments of
warm exposure dripping the colour of
spilled sand, its broadness a pored
field of jewelled slivers, rivulets of
shattered hourglass glistening immortal as broken
clouds after drought, pining for my
breath sowing compliments rushing seed’s incoming


torrents humidifies deep to ivory mist
salt tints, its vellum a mess
with revelations the tension of the
heart we share relinquishes in triumphs,
devilish triads when singing crimson choruses
piping the pulse into two of
us no one else wants, and
yes, her aching songs have dust
on them, fallen particles of wayward
angels frothing pearls forming around an


irritant, roaring aurora, here where lovers
who need to meet can, journeying
past withheld hands, grasping for once
how it was not you who
fell from my grip, but that
my misgivings let me slip, living
now for how you tell, as
you go in for the kill,
fingers on the pulse and jugular,
stag in the sanctuary bleeding watercolour.