A woman young and olive-skinned pours milk

over her thighs. You are transfixed.

Caught in the raw moment of desire.

A fire I did not light. This fascination,

you say, I’ve acquired, no doubt it comes

from you. Your own red-faced transgression.

Every day you carry in new books of Gauguin’s

girls, lounging topless and tanned in Tahiti ,

films Bunuel – the lost but not forgotten.

You want a girl who tastes like Harisa,

all hot paste and coriander.

Enjoy telling me I’m bland as watercress.

Then you laugh. Say it’s a joke.

Gone are the sacred days. Welcome to

the blank. Though who’s to say that

really all of it was not blank?

That this meant anything?