Aimed up to
paint her palate;
though some wild
beast am I who saves for two nights

enough to
feed her in
the convulsions I
her breathing disturbed.

Having had
her fill
she flicks
the prick I am not is waving

out her lips
still I-we-it
shoot and measure
white lines o’er her woven plaits.

(Swallowed, then I
see her smile)
and she giggles
her arse to the bathroom

and I
sigh and too I laugh
with taps that were plumbed for this night.