London
Our down comforter discomfited, your cheeks complementary, like one white sun passing its light to another. I want to leap back into your pouch, bashful as fledgling corn. But there’s work to be done. My white shirt and striped tie, my thin, black belt and shiny shoes that balance raindrops like newly-waxed cars. I’ll wear these. I’ll befriend women with bread batter on their hands, women who reek of beer. You’ll be jealous, but consoled, as always, by your opulent ear lobes, with which you toy, endlessly. Are you sleeping or mad? Rescue me from the sting of aftershave, the certainty of slapping myself awake. A sign perhaps, show me, a gesture or jester to soothe.
I stroke your cheek, and your cruel finger responds—points to a doorway that has no door.
—Peter Johnson
—found in Miracles & Mortifications (2001)