I have been known, when occasion permitted,
to write poetry in bed.
An extension of erotic fiction?
Hardly, I said.

Though the inevitable thoughts
of pupils dilated, sweat, skin
skim across the page, they’re mute:
mere shadows of sin.

No, doona poetry is far more tender:
crumpet crumbs and cat hair shed,
That sort of love, love with guts,
love that tolerates poems in bed.