(for David Wright and Phillipa Reid)

Sweat, wicked kissers, in your stark
Hate of the whitewashed day;
By the queen-swarm of a breast
Where lolls a honeycombing hand
No peeping constellations may
Eavesdrop upon you as you clip
Each other in old Adam’s nest,
And in an evening silvered cup
Love’ upspringing sunrise catch
Till the winged bloodhorses of sex
Dead heat, and meet their match.