You sleep away your acid head, and I,
high on the mountain, nailed down by the noon,
watch the wasp dig, oviposit and fly.
Cease, diethylamide, sleep like the Stag
at Bay. The city, plumbed into the sea,
hums no tune from here. Linen straps your leg
to the mattress, my foot suffers the scree
path to the car park at Pick 'n' Pay. Cool
my cheek on the freezer cabinet. I
will prepare a pawpaw, quarter the fruit
in its skin, etch it with sugar and lime.
My shoulders scratch, antsy for a shower.
We drift off on the fruit flies' dance and dream.
We match our shagged shins. We, finally, surrender.
Matthew John Williams