The tilt of your shoulder is the shape
My mind assumes, resting there; your breasts—
The last fruit (persimmons, let’s say) on the last tree—
Seem to want me to name the many dialects of disappointment
And delight. Your body, a lazy phrase or two displayed
Across my couch, makes a bed, if not a bedFellow, of my mind, in which I wake late, the taste of fire
Still blue on my tongue. Every piece of the carnal world
Takes the shape of a question it alone knows
How to pose. And you can keep on posing
Yours as long as you like, for I am in no hurry
To make an answer; I’m content just to follow
My hand as it makes these lines, which look for you
And trace the way my mind is made over
But never made up, swallowing hunger, and touching
And touching in violet silences the skin
Of so many haptic and haphazard questions.
www.marktredinnick.com.au