Moving through the gentle breast-like undulations Of this grassed lushland, Damp to the red earth that smells of healthy holidays, One feels one’s eyes begin to open wider
They say no man is an island But Browsing bruised among the status updates Tags and wallposts, well-located namechecks Furling forward like a procurator’s scroll
Food at altitude Is not good. A tiny gherkin lurking Amid a hash of cold kartoffel (Looking a little bit penile) Smiles at this distressed diner, While, by its side A shrunken frankenfurter,
With eyes of jade you made that fatal offer As we lay low, close clung And strung out by complexities. I shouldn’t have believed, but you flashed true, clear,