His lines crawl across my cortex when I sit and when I walk and when I lie down and when I rise up.
While I wash dishes, he whispers words like maisonette and miasmal mist and fugitive resentment and glazen shelves and green silence.
I can’t shake the images of brown waves of fog and daffodil bulbs staring up from eye sockets and a laughed-off head “rolling under a chair or grinning over a screen with seaweed in its hair.”
And, dear Lord, I never should have looked up “Priapus.”
Tom and I, we’ve been an item now for a couple of weeks. But had it not been for a double-dog dare and Tania’s chaperoning presence, I might have given in and given up. I might have rubbed my back upon his verse and slid away like so much yellow smoke.
Or I might have cheated after the first read and run to SparkNotes.
The question is… did I… or didn’t I? Join me at Tweetspeak Poetry to find out.
Still reading… or not,