To a lover, overcome with panic and lust,

think back to that summer and that first song.

Sinew inside the mind, a singing black slug, snug,

leaving lines in the cortex, a tune of dementia.

The ticks, tremors and sounds of envious children.

A wilting, sad cluster of flowers, dropped.

Crescent half-thoughts into action as the song ends

and steer vitriol through the violent seas of desire.

Shushed to the corner where the bagpipes howl

a hundred notes of solitude, hunger and fear.

Those whispered lies told when the day gave us up.

Because that day ended without the slow sludge of thought.