(for LL)
At school you seemed thuggish,
pitched against the main who were
ski-holiday good. Under the crucifix
its all about shades of being
and grades; being taught biology
and love, each lent we raised alms.
One year, when Susan Jenkins' parents
went away for Easter, we invaded their
smart semi like an inconvenient
infestation of bed bugs. I laughed,
you chased me then stood back
to crush a cigarette into the grass
evaded the drought like a hosepipe ban
in this lush swathe of green
and later, long after the lines of trendies
swapped saliva while pink lady perry
delighted us both, you pushed me gently
into the vegetable bed. Under the crucifers
its all about shades of being
the biology of kissing too softly
as you pinned me under raised arms.
