V: Three poems

"Write me a poem where he catches us at it,"
she said; her lips show-tuning, musical. Without
wanting to I'd written her a poem with him, Cyclops,
eating us, play-do; us as peeled bananas.

One day her boyfriend did turn up; filling the doorway.
We waited for him to say something. His eyes
were sunburnt and he wobbled; loss of balance
quite common, apparently, in cases such as his.

"Write a sonnet about his accident,"
again pyrotechnic smile, lunar spotlight.

"Fucking a blind person is kind of liberating,
you can keep your eyes open; drop that curtain call
of passion." And she went on top, always, arching
her back appropriately feline when he made sounds.

"Write a poem about it," she said.
Her as a doll with one of those string pulls
from her back. Eyelids that droop shut
when you lie the doll down, to sleep.