The school crush
Quarried on the desktop of a schooling gouged we find
‘x loves x’ but not sex (you understand) but just the pressing
of short trousered knees to gingham dresses hot in
the cloakroom of an ardent crush-snatched-moment in
time, that would for all time recall that time, and is now
the very icicle of an echo of an echo of an echo; the
falling of the thinest tears from red eyes fisted in enthral,
for that is all it was, and the moment passed and faded into
the memory of a memory of a memory of a kiss by a kiss.
And it was bliss.
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