Carol Ann Duffy

Till Our Face

Whispers weave webs amongst thighs. I open
like the reddest fruit. Between the rapid spaces
of the rain the world sweats seas and damp
strings tremble for a perfect sound.

A bow tugs catgut. Something inside me
steps on a high wire where you search crimson
for a silver thread. A rose glows beneath
the drift of pine needles. I bite your lip, lost.

Come further in, where eyes stare inward
at the skull as the roof of the brain
takes flight. Your mouth laps petals till our face
is a flower soaked in its own scent.

The planets abandon us.