runs round a reservoir in the rain
her Nikes and popsocks punishing the po-faced ground
and the heart in her dark bounced breast
beating the dreary wind. Those Latin locks
curled damply round her cheeks are black-blasted heath fingers
pointed witches of somewhere chilly and wet in the west.
Her ringlets might be sensual on a hot pillow somewhere south
traced by a spent lover’s hand, smelled like the best coffee in a morning.
Resting there she could be unfit, fat and taken warmly
not flabfighting in a place where everything she likes is wrong,
where lovers can’t be found
because they’ve all gone
to Venezuela.