We begin slowly: I don’t get enough
sweetness of impersonation.
The details are scars and tyrannosaurs that only
recreate the breaking of a bond.
We are seduced by creativity – quite literally, fragments,
a beaten man bleeding similes of sensual transformations.
Then suddenly it’s mankind
and experience, defiance, vulgarity and sleight of hand:
ambiguous defences we’ve built up around the
bathing child.
Poetic dialogues might easily be arranged conventionally
but her diction is simple, suspended in the riddle.
What makes the baby
saves the poet
underneath an oak tree.
