Poem
Robin (Hood’s Bay)
the tent and trees
up on that hill
float in the blowing fog,
I pull out your blouse
‘Yes’ warm my cold hands
on your breasts,
you laugh
I shudder
peel fruit
as you make by gas stove,
I’m picking grass
rub between my fingers
you drink wine
as the moon plays skip,
we’ll lie on sponge
against each other
hot broth on gas
it grows dark
drink more wine.
