your orchids are glad tumours of buds

long-closed by some pinch of the air

they open, keen angels, to my violence.

Soft stoppers on the rages of colour

are flicked along with stones down the scarp.

The on-come of the crockery of your climax

tramples the frames of your spared spectacles

and the astronomical roup and dizzy of

your scream is unfastened, utter,

to shake to hell the Hebrew of your throat.

you are felled, gorgeous-buried within the sky

and the cavern floor of your eyes.

In time, rash with full blooms of quiescence

here on the broad back of the scar and my hand

you ask me simply ‘Where am I?’