Must we share another error
Maybe it's the knife left lying on the lino,
the car boot which wouldn't quite close,
the tattooist repeat carving, 'Keith Keith'
into underside breast tissue
of girls who sneeze-say achoo
into their fists like geishas.
Maybe it's the red roses we stole from the graveyard
and petal stripped the lips,
stuck like suction pads to our tongues
and kissing,
instantly knew it was wrong.
