It can’t be there but it is again
no matter how slowly I pull the blind
the magic orange all alone
on top of the ragged post untouched
secret admirer dark emanate
too heavy surely for your
scrambling ardour or doting claw
placed dead centre four metres high
unpeeled and moonlessing dawn
lips await the warming sacrifice
your song cleaves air in fragrant bite
the fourth note ululation
stretching the membrane
in flaunt rebuke to a counterfeit reply
juice streaming sticky words
celebrant fingers lick them dry
Published on The Inkpods, December 2019, audio broadcast of The Blue Nib
The oranges were always left on the end post.
James Walton Poetry 