I hum, prepare a breakfast
of exotica: escargot and ostrich
eggs - my hands stained green
with chopped basil, hair curling
in the steam of anise tea.

There are no clothes
in this kitchen. You watch me
over the paper as I slice open
blood oranges, ruby grapefruit,
rub citrus oils over breasts

and stomach in warm lazy circles.
Low sun angles through curtains,
bathes you in snapdragon panoply.
News of the world abandoned
in a heap at your feet, you stroke

your cock until it glistens - slump
slightly in your chair, widen legs
and lap to accommodate me,
end your last downsweep
in a fist that holds you straight

and still. Starting slow steps
forward, I think this time I might
reach you, but dream-feet twisted
into sheets just mark time.

I trip again on the cold
moon       a violet ache.