She was hanging in
the tate sunday britain
(horses ,flamboyance & pomp
)
on six hours sleep &
smelling sweetly of last
night’s booze

taking her heels
along noisy
the wooden floor

— enough for me
& every slumped pair of glasses
tourist-eye, regular,
chinfingered about the place
to‘ o-she’s-stopped
at a painting’—

wood ricochet wood ,
varnished enough away
from nightclubs
to creak
, to feel her whole weight
like good sex;
& speak about it with
historical glam—

she reminds me of art
& talks fondly
with cross-eyed ecstasy
at the eighties v.c.r we keep
silent before

but her fruit(

cluttered in jeans
) & heaved up on thighs
paints oil & puckered
over flashing images

wipes out my image of romance
as she regards another piece like

i’vegottophotographthis ( )
a sawtooth of her
years at uni & youthful affection
draped over tomorrow’s dinner

& that is the gallery —

her crossed-arm handbag tussle &
revolving door out into the
distance of thames wind wrangling
hair ,bunched scarf and a smoke at last.