Fresh from the sun-shine-line  hanging 

Are the drooping tongues of dead things shrouded in lace 

Slouching-up-side-down-flowers  heather  lavender 

Open in the breeze to be plucked 

Then shucked from your sticky-sweet open-legs. 

Triple-gapped for a pair of hips and slung up next to socks 

To dry  for later    For a closed-curtain yanked aside 

For a peeking  probed for rainfall  now gone 

Translucent in lieu of your white-bikini-bottoms 

And every-day you pluck a new empty-scrap 

Of mesh  ruched  broderie  bows  or your ex- 

Boyfriends-boxer-shorts  to hold it all in tight- 

Laced to scratch the itch of last night’s lusting 

And your freshly pink Brazilian-waxed-flesh, 

Circulating the colours, the days-of-the-week-ones 

Paired with towel-dried-hair and heaving- 

Breasts open to the breeze each morning for one of them 

Then another who liked the pink-ones  like 

Petunias on golden soiled-skin, burnished 

And new  fresh-from-the-line-hanging  this 

Soggy  unravelling  snapped elastic-trim holds 

Our bodies blindly   The black-ones you picked 

For fucking or the white-ones for stale-loving 

And lingering in the basket  blood-stained 

For the skip or a sea-salt-drowning or 

For the bygone bouquet in the cup-board-gone-stale 

Bunched-up  crouching like the last-lick in the jar 

Cornered  dead things tongues protruding 

And poked-presumably before his-or-her 

Finger-tips or plastic-things for shaking-hips 

Or teeth for tearing at the apex of your thighs 

Your half-hearted-sighs and your knickers –  

Like honey  trailed by bees to your hive.