Mark Allinson
Sheets to the Wind
Last night I heard the wind make love
in mooned and wavy sheets of tin
and choose the long-nailed one, above
the rest, to rend his silken skin.
And as her rust-red nails were raised
to rake and ripple raptured pain
her rising-falling curves he praised
and raised and lowered her again.
His stroke on silvered skin, moon-lit,
induced a hum; she whispered more;
then hard and fast his frantic fit
of love made her his love adore.
Prised ajar she opened wide
receiving him like billowed sails,
flapped and arched in his potent tide
she screeched and tore her rasping nails.
Upon his breath she rose and fell
faster, faster now she wailed
enthralled in free ecstatic hell
so loose upon the beam impaled.
And when the wind had come and gone
and flung the sheets of his desire
I'd lost my will for sleeping on
my own, my heart, my sheets of fire.
