Palm me,
As you would a coin.
Let me slide behind your wrist,
All hush and quiet —
Covered,
While the Assembly Room roars:
‘Where are those ragged bones,
Lazy and lousy?’
‘Gone. All gone,’
Is my retort —
Alive with secret,
Self-satisfied thought.
Gone to ground…
Gone under cloth…
Gone against the grain
Of her body…
Skin like Sunday morning
Risen again;
Gold as a bell
Stopped early.
