So we descend onto the bed
like dust onto the still and sombre poppy
like fragments of pollen lapped up by the lizards tongue
white flash smiles and small night-animal noises.

Wasted seed. ****! Gone, into the folds and crevices of dark
thick smell of rubber like the hot factory floor
I'm tired now, Beatrice. I'm worn, weary,
world-weary, wasted.
I shall sleep now
and unfurl like an impossible caterpillar, unfinished
from its cocoon.