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Click hereBecause we’d both imagined it we thought
when we met, let’s give it a go. So, you spread-eagled
as I beat you, and my astonishment at
the white of your skin as intricate as suggestive
as Rothko - indentations, moles, pores
coming to life and notice, while the irregular
reddening, the eloquent blistering started
and I worked away as if painting you alive
for my eyes, brought you to life for me
as real as body as beautiful.
But you don’t want to try it again. Why should you?
We don’t really need the paraphernalia.
Yet an enigma. A sense of something lost.
Bumfluff in sunlight! Sense of Provençal
hillsides of pale rock and waving mimosa
and the peculiar brilliance of wild flowers
in a soft sun. Then how we both enjoyed
the children’s party, the ham inside the sandwich
the ice cream cone that dribbled down my chin.
Your pleasure, that above all, the laughter
that goes with sunlight. The way your clenched face
opened to show a naked palm of feeling.
I think of grey autumn days
you at the processor, you doing deals -
no lover in the offing – your face
clenched up again – crushing or hiding something?
What is the secret? What the unknown
satisfactions render our satisfaction redundant?
All sorts of answers. But I think of you typing away
describing rooms where light is glittering off chrome,
off the silver of ballgowns a-swish on a polished floor
and your heroine sips a cocktail with a bright cherry
which bobs at the rim of a delicate glass
suggestively, and your muscular hero
looks in her eyes, hurls back a double scotch
and they are off to carpet the floor with lingerie
and watch innumerable breasts a-bobbing
in the mirrors of luxury hotels, or tuck her neatly
down into bed with rope. What need have you
of the literal enactment, limited caress
who have so much? Or have you?
A question writers can end up asking themselves.