Escher
Life spoils us with a choice of unfortunate combinations —
a dish of curried eggs, say, or being Italian Glaswegian
but nothing comes close to this drunk sex, early hours,
as I play your pale flanks with kisses, my breath sour
as I lap at the small of your back then dip up to whisper
buttercup at your ear, not yet knowing who you are:
a face on the dawn train or the girl in that print by Escher
who leans from her window and gazes down at the sky
while the townsfolk mind their business miles above her.
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