Robert Knapman

Don’t I know you?
You brushed me by
Then glanced away
Muted

Don’t you know me?
I feigned a grin
And tripped myself
Laughing

Didn’t we
Fuck
On that black panting street
Of swoll…

Taffeta nights
Testosterone electric
Waiting
With his dance card
For the rights to the soul of a man

I honour the taking of salty grains of you
Its dry lake outback crunch, drought barren coastal grit, Sodomite sting