SPREADEAGLED

Bucharest,



Spread-eagled and naked

in her crop circle -

this one in a sunflower field:

she’s a wheel of limbs,

some sort of a *******

lusted after by the seed heavy

flowers bowing to her curves

like drooling surgeons.



She’s finished with running,

waiting for the fading light

to join the last of her loves,

faded with processed proclamations

of undying certainty

which were a little worse for wear

after courting

and checked into intensive care

soon after.



Love thought it had

ducked its obligations,

passed again

like a heavy goods train in the night,

shunted across the border

while guards waved it on;

interested only in sleep or beer.



But this time she’s making sure

love returns,

pays its duty and dues

and hits its target.



So, splayed

aryan and vigorous,

apeing a pagan

resurrection,

she waits

for the skydiver

who – with precision

confidence – happens

to be bearing down

on her charity target,

slowly filling her

with his ***** shadow.



She sunbathes under mirrors,

she’s a real

tough nut to crack.

I repeat myself into her.