the smell of fresh laundry, that faintly
metallic, humid aroma of down, reminds me
of infidelity

.......but also of fire illuminated figures
carved like myths from sand cold to the foot,
that first palpitating glimpse of dark triangle
between the pale varicosity of
a homely girl’s legs,

.......this fire inextricable from the other,
two shadow forms converging in
.......ancient performance

I emerge pliable, molten,
waiting for the hammer