Writing this in sepia ink on a Japanese fan,
pain slants my calligraphy
this way, sex just under the cap of my skull.
Dreams taunt your existence
as you swish by in raw silk
until the words I use lose meaning
and my best lines twang like limp
old lace. This metaphor thick with blood
trembles as my mind approaches the blank
folds in the rice paper, writing
on your arms, this scrawl scrolling
through you, each letter a link in the chain
between my head and the bed, a text
of splintering syllables in which
time comes apart, pricking your skin –
the joke’s our meaning, gnarled
with the word-knots coming undone
where your breast shines with the sepia
ink and the sheets blot out thinking.
Smudged with love, your bum’s a haze
of lavender oil as I rub this in.