Imagine how long I would spend
seeking out the detail –
colour of belly compared with colour of hands,
that contrast of contours.
Oh the thoughts, the questions.
How many have seen this body?
Who has held it?
Is there a part that has never been touched
by the lips of a lover
or another’s tongue?
I’d want to be looking for the smoothest parts,
seeking constellations of moles,
I’d be wondering if this or that neck
smells of nutmeg, salt or soap.
Or Double Gloucester like my old cat’s paws.
I would forget my poem
in the worry of unwashed bodies
on leather seats
and start inventing rules
about audiences needing to shower
before entering the auditorium.