My name is an exotic flower in your mouth
I taste its strange new petals on your tongue.
‘There must be poems about this,’ you say.
‘There are,’ I say, ‘and good ones too.’
‘No, this – the moonlight on your lover’s breast –
whoever designed it got it right.’
And I am glad to be a body, warm and smooth
for light to sculpt, for hands to stroke.
I watch the grey dawn gather in your eyes
and need no other sun
as though I were a creature formed from your rib,
named only by your tongue.
And we finally allow ourselves to sleep
only for the pleasure of waking