They embrace like ivy
hastening the ruin’s end –
under the broken exit
share narcotic kisses
that erase self and
the body’s borders:
step outside both
crowded nightclub and
St Mary’s graveyard.
Maybe come-downs
are the weight
of coming back
like the small
dove shaped bruise
located above
the scapula,
on her carotid vein
– trembling.
With many thanks and gratitude to David Cooke for publishing this poem
