zafusy

You are up to your elbows in
yourself, declining. A lean

winter, hands chafed with cold.
First flush, your heat, gloved

in passion, mottled and holding.
Or beholden. One man’s giving –

shuffled between them, painter
and patron. Red/black. Hint

of a smile, quirked lip: what’s
you is subtle, hidden. That patch

of shadow at your throat, his blacks
licking at your skin. Eyes fixed

on nothing, edging towards Freud:
the divan a secret for you to hold.

Sophie Mayer

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