Pikadon


Imagine the slow shelling
Of ourselves, sped
To a frenzy by a globe
Hotter than hormones.

Snake and onion, our bones
Have had enough of us.
They are lush in a second
To their marrows.

Rivulets, kite skin,
Carnelian as we rub,
In the garden
Trailing like snails.

1982 John Goss