We don’t leave the light on any more
and we take it slow, tantric.
If you’re measuring pleasure
it’s the fingers these days which give
and take the most as they travel
the rollers and troughs of this
the largest organ.
Sixty-odd years since we two virgins
cast off together, startled and star-struck
by the newness of the other,
its alien complexities, its concaves
where convexities might be, its
unexpected hards and softs.
Now there’s untold solace in tracing
the progress of each sag and crease
when, as if to dope a biplane,
the hand smoothes and varnishes
places where skin fits over bone,
or it animates flesh hanging
folded like the wasted wings of the moa.
No more the fervour of discovery −
it’s the same secret island
only, a simoom is blowing, dry
and dusty, re-forming contours
into a comfortable approximation
of how the land once used to lie.
(from The Space Beyond)
© Jo Field