O-
it aches...

I’ll easily call a puppy a wolf.
Pain to me is that slight rash...

This is a paltry pain-
one where you may stagger on and on...

Weak Scottish sun streamed
and pattered...

There is not a word to write
of anything but sun...

My mother never told us who she loved,
but packed us off to school each sun cracked dawn...

I walk another dollhouse street,
and at the centre of that black desert road...

This is quite a lie,
so unfurl the flesh...

Nymph of the plaited tresses,
your eyes gleam like garnet honey...