"She lives the poetry she cannot write" – Wilde
This one has been in my subconscious for years. Frankly, I’m glad to be rid of it. It’s all yours now.
The Taxidermist’s Love Song
Her eyes could not be matched
in any catalogue of mine.
Her collarbones, the angle of her neck
She shucked me of my tweeds.
Mink-slick, she was, and my deft hand
made clumsy as a brick.
She flayed me with each stroke
and left me naked as a robin on a twig.
I set my kisses down her spine
and wished each one a stitch.