The infinite softness
& complexity of a body
in repose. The hinge
of the ankle bone de-
fines the flat space
of a foot, its puckered
flesh & almost arch.
The calf’s heavy curve
sweeping down against
the bony shin, or up
to the warm bulges and
hollows of the knee
describes a line of
gravity, energy as
from shoulder knob
to knuckle, the arm
cascades, round the
elbow, over the wrist.
The whole body a system
of checks & balances —
those natural shapes
a sculptor celebrates,
sea-worn caves, pools,
boulders, tree-trunks —
on softer, more secret
areas, hair sprouting
crevices, odorous nooks
& crannies of love,
awaiting the impress
of desire, a fervent
homage, or tempting
to an extinction of
burrowing blindness.
(Deviously uncurling
from the hot clothes
of shame, a desert
father’s dream of
sluttish nakedness,
demon with inflamed
breasts, dangling
tresses to drag man
down to hell’s gaping
vaginal mouth.)
To see the model
as simply human
a mild housewife
earning pocket money
for husband, child,
the white track on
her shoulders where
above brown flesh
the brassiere lifts
to show the quiet of
unsunned breasts &
to mourn & cherish
each melancholy proof
of mortality’s grudge
against perfection:
the appendix scar
lacing the stomach
the pale stitches on
the wailing wall of
the rib-cage where
the heart obediently
pumps.
What homage
is worthy for such
a gentle unveiling?
To nibble her ten
toes, in an ecstacy
would flatten her
breasts, level the
curves of arse &
stomach, moulding
the mother lode
that pulses beneath
to a uniformity
of robot bliss.)
On cartridge paper
an army of pencils
deploy silently to
lure her into their
net of lines while
from & above her
chilled, cramped
body blossoms
a late flower:
her tired smile.
Tides (1970)