Between Hallowe'en and Bonfire Night

Just then, encountering my ruddy face   
in the grand piano's cold black craquelure,   
it conjured the jack-o'-lantern moon   
dipping up over the roofs of the Tenderloin.   
   
Only when I have done with the myths—   
the inner spill that triggers us to flame,   
breasts so sensitive a moment's touch            
will call down fever; the dark sea-lane   
   
between limbic squall and the heart's harbour—   
will I picture you, just beyond innocence,   
lying stripped by a thrown-wide window,   
letting the cool breeze covet your ardour.

More Poems by Roddy Lumsden