Aubade to Girton

We must not speak now of etherised spread-

eagle evenings fading skin histories

from violent to -et to rose-risen blush.

We must not rush now past the wee hours of

waiting on fronted news, the foreplay tense,

the hot slit in a letter, the shriek.

I have never treasured the fingerprint

sonic resonances of a snore.

We shall not sever hydra stalks for fear of fresh

blooms: already one says:  “mankind cannot

bear very much reality (wink here)”;

next head: “bet you were a difficult child”;

the next: “getting so drunk is a waste of

my time, the college’s time, the porter’s time,” etc.

To some other wide-eyed labour-eager chosen one

I shall leave this garden instructionless.

I will slip off the window of her lily-ridden house and

pursue the sunrise with a net of silver crunching aphids.

I will char those swatches dotted with herds of woollen teeth.

I will close your goddamn curtains for you.