line-ending words stolen from “Whuff,” by Roo Borson

That evening we scarfed oyster flesh to excess,
lifted cloth to dab our lips with,
hoped this grub would get us lucky.
Lucky. That’s what parlance claims it is
to wrestle, garmentless and sleepless,
under a naked sky or in a room
strewn with souvenirs of love,
artifacts of bygone pas de deux;
to moan or squeal or snort,
shatter the hourglass, disperse the sands
until their blizzard pocks the neighbours’ eardrums.
Oyster juice makes tendrils on our cheeks. The catechism
we recite but can’t quite learn
by heart is painted on the wall. Excuse yourself
and slip from bed and read it. May God bless you,
I intone, still hoping God is wakeful.

© Peter Norman