sliced like a pear.
pips pop between the strings and frets
and slide like incensed sand into my hair.
stone-walled and mortar-bared,
black, dusty, spare, breeze-borne,
like a rhythm running through a shadow, then ensnared.
mouth closed, the breaths of agar trees
remember the strip of bark and splay of leaf,
motions tressed and burdened like a frozen frieze.
dark freckled knuckles winking under silk –
spice-scented, deluged, warm-wind-draped –
lie hollow, like coconuts shorn of flesh and milk.
if I touched its warble I’d feel musk,
taste something coloured like sultana skin
and hear the breaking bawl of burnished husks.
it’s gargling a throat of hot perfume.
spat at my helix, its dripping clothes my earlobes,
wandering wild, like a wave of wine in a sober room.