In this hand, velvet is the
peach sliced through.
In its hollow lies red, as in the setting of the sun.
I feel that warmth yet still a knife pierces
my backbone cold.

I am not given to befriending strangers
men who offer candy set too high a price
and yet – she whispers from her single
point of view –
Sometimes maybe often what is one
supposed to do?
Misunderstand me not at all: for I know that,
these are not handsome beliefs
Yet –
as the loneliness creeps up
smothering me like some slow marauding tiger
slinking purposely along
I purge my blood to pallid juices sweet.

Perhaps if the pleasure he offers
are meagre in their donation
I should not thrill to revisit
For I know
I can offer no resistance without circumstance
sometimes all things: become certain.

Poppy 1st July 2013

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