Robin Robertson

1955 / Scone


What am I to think now,
the white scut
of her bottom
down the half-flight
carpet stair
to the bathroom?
What am I to do
with this masted image?
I put all my doubt
to the mouth of her long body,
let her draw the night
out of me like a thorn.
She touched it, and it moved: that's all.
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