All the other girls have gone.
Outside, it’s cold. But we’re already in
your flat, the tinsel serpent winding round
your yucca plant, and you lean over,
asking may I kiss you
and then you’re in,
a kiss that wakes a violence,
that won’t leave me
the way I was before:
we bridge together on your floor
and as you scratch my back I know
I’ll wear this red tattoo for near a month:
the one you leave behind inside far longer.
* * *