Must we share another error

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.