Lie in

In the wriggling of the body

in the sharp outtake from a glance

in the twist of the fork
into monuments of lust

in the slow drip of wakefulness
at the edge of a morning
 
who’s dovetail joint fits snug into plans
laid aside for now because it feels better
 
to contemplate your warmth 
from the hiding place of the idea

who’s moist mouth and firm breasts
announce the birth of a movement
 
somewhere down there amongst 
damp sheets piled like deferred work

but easier to get on with
whilst the day makes its own plans, 

and last night’s bottles make merry hell 
in rattling bins and the cheerful cries 

of the last of the Milkmen send
small ignorable sound waves of guilt

upwards to ears that won’t hear 
and hearts pierced already

by more to ignore, than the clattering
of a day we don’t think we’ll miss.