She learned to see and feel

The deepest secrets lurking in

The hearts of those who came to swim

In her dark waters.

                                                                              – Tiresias, Kate Tempest



Your pen is a craft-knife,–

A surgeon’s incisor to carve, to etch

Intaglios of intimacy.


Flesh is a first draft:

With tongue to skin you sketch fresh sentences,


Caressing, creating,–

Brushstrokes soft and damp.


A contrapuntal clash of bodies forms

The groundwork for those figurative scores

Notated in a sweet, evasive key.



Curtains close dawn’s iris like a lid.

You black out morning’s grey eraser-eye;

Exposure bleaches inky hours to white.


Flesh-marks glow with nocturnal knowledge.

They burn to scream their salty genesis.


With paper to bandage knees, neck, chest,

That room becomes a manual printing-press:


Vellum to vellum, text and body kiss.

Ink dries,–

Your clauses barb with blood and bliss.