Her tantalising tarantulas creep
Along my chest, back, legs, but circumvent
The centre; no, they won’t come near; they keep
Respectful distance till this dance is spent.
She’s fretful, hands open and then fists clenched;
She’s lying, sighing, crying in the night,
In the darkness looking magnificent,
Should have drunk less, lacking the will to fight.
The creaking peaking, fortunately slight,
The voices croaking, water sipped; might sleep
For an hour or two, time to both repent
The tender eyelids, torn from silent flight,
Remembering work’s call. And so we sweep
It all under the bed, act innocent.
Fri 8 Feb 2008
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