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.