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Adrian Wiggins   Love's End

Your phrase, its convincing finality, fires my weltering heart across the room. Till then I wanted you by the bucketload. Shoring-up I reel through rounds of Claire's cumquat liqueur while snide messages idle down the redundant path - for I am muggins, deaf to sound, daft to sense - for I am hard at work shovelling coals, abaft the audience. There's private health plans for my chiropractor, for my nervous tic, but nothing for now as the whole proscenium crashes about these listing schemes. Jeez the gin-soaked cumquats knock me out. For you are beautiful, really. I hope you have a stroke. Your sculptured fandango sliding from its cheekbones. Not right now though - I press on, making regrets: new stanchions, new duct, new stuffed toys, new soft porn - the whole unwanted container-load nuzzling at your dock. Baffling, this unravelling - your manners, your patois!

Adrian Wiggins Photo copyright © Alison Fraser 1999

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