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.