I want to move your hair;

to clout you sharply on the moors,

leaving canine contours at the foot of your throat,

a dog mawing the marrow,

sticky sore and ashamed of

a picked-clean ribcage

on cooing windowsills.

I want to burst your banks;

float by like detritus

and cloy to your oar’s thick end,

over and over.

Praise with faint damns.

Drown in them,

roll in them,

bask in them,

bake in them,

dive in and miss and hit sticky-up bits.

Cracked, like fine wine.

I want pills & booze,

traversing what’s decent,

like the octopus tree

feeling your terrace, head bowed, where

old flames decay attics,

skylights pulsing 

blue and black,

mistaking my arse for your elbow.

Never knowing when to please

stop

doing that.