Partial

Confusion of the heart.

Turn me off to the idea of corrective therapy.

Cradled indifference equals eventual cot death.

Was it my sardonic wit that won your breath

or the way with which I despoiled dramatic irony?

She is bloodless, but blushing in vague directions.

                      

Doctor says I’m fit to break hearts

but in the process of breaking my own,

I found time to distress her funny bone.

Now we sit alone in the grip of the finest arts.

Dynamic to the touch, young and afraid.

 

Take inspiration from stone steps.

Look to pillars for comparative literature,

take to metaphors for the sake of the suture.

The circle and the bachelor aware of the narrow sex.

Taken to bed like rumours of war.

 

Arresting attention, step back in awe

And take in what you may in such legless appeals.

Oh, what covetous cotton conceals

her unchecked, desperate and raw

eyes that went weak in my fingers.