held to my pleasure
under the carping motions
of my thumb,
a river of mud
drying to it’s wrecks.

If you were clay
I’d stretch
those pitched epaulettes
you crease for kissing
sombre skins.

The damp slab
sculptural as a rockface
gives itself
to the dry air.

Under furrows
eddies of niches
situate your nose
as if all our days
pointed seaward.