The orchards of the internet have rooms
for my virtual museums, and portals
to fancies I suppress—Roman revels
enhanced with sound effects, like my neighbour
this noon in his condo, earthquake water
stacked prudently on his porch,
a redwood to shade our double windows.
Sounds like he’s surfed a porno flick. Her yelps
ring out like waves and break
against our clapboard walls. And here’s the jug
she’ll sluice her back with in a second
or a century: longing’s embodiment
as I polish off my chicken breast, chased
with last night’s wine, my foraged plum.
(Times Literary Supplement, January 2015 and Hunting the Boar, CBeditions 2016)