When I wake, and when I
lay me down
he's there, projected on
the pillow next to mine:
Beckham – or someone very like.
Skilled in the art of love,
between my mind's clean sheets,
and sings the Song of Solomon.
My beloved…O my beloved…
He kisses with the kisses of his mouth.
We feed on figs and wine;
honey is under my tongue,
and look, his belly is a heap of wheat.
In a house grouted, sanded,
pointed, painted, oiled and cleaned,
drained, gabelled, corbelled,
scoured and greased by someone else,
to Adjudicators Report
My nose discovers spikenard and myrrh,
and cinnamon and cloves, and scent of musk.
He lies all night between my breasts
And feedeth among the lilies