
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.