Tres

Enamoured, we are gross

For the taking. A passerby,

A plaintive cry, a gasp and

Then a moan; we yield to each

Endeavour in the sunshine

Or the snow. Feet hammer,

Demure, a lusting for air;

To see a dull, wet moon.

The tremors punctuate

Thick clouds that pucker

Outwardly and swoon.

When the cats come out.

Dos

Steel-lipped in tranquil
Seas we wail to whales

Without a clue. The haste
Is in the waves and we

Are soaked through to
Wrought sinew. There’s

Love and death and all
That’s left on shelves

Above the stove. Climactically
it’s all enough: this feisty

treasure trove. Impaled, we
are immaculate and gaping.