Dusk is brief in valleys.

but daytime slowly washed, skin, scraped carefully
to eat, covered in
scents delivered by transparent bag
mingling with garden trees and the cattle flies from fields nearby.

Rare, imported light-bulb light
passes through hair,
hands sit dwarfed
and distort in wine glasses,
the split *** mumbles rises on the hob
for Callisto outside, dancing prosaically about a very thin pole.

Conversations become excuses to stare at lips,
and songs suggested without conviction
play unfinished.


The music is softer now, the group diminished.
Getting heavier things.
Extremities in particular, and a few more sophisticated objects.
Corkscrews like ingots and eyelashes masscarad in lead.

There are the last lights and the thin summer sheets
that get in the way; stuck to sweaty –‘tertwined and clumsy--

Ash and tannin obscure the smell of gums
(and sometimes even the folded sent of neck and jaw).
More sweat is generated
Sleep does not come
or so it feels
when
morning is slightly too soon
bright and curtainless
and the beauty is sifted fruity and fuckless soft but moaning.