College Library Toilets

Days pressed up against one another

in catalogue like books on shelves,

each cohort a spot of the foxing

on grandad-whiff yellow paper.

The stacks muffle whispering

and amplify the silence.

You lean on one elbow to read,

relaxing after working out,

flexing the spine of something.

Every now and then your eyes meet
another pair of eyes which turn away

coyly, the words heavy suddenly

like weights on the page, a sweat bead

hitting the desk, your trousers

tightening.

Kissing him in the cubicle

you hit the flush on each moan,

over and over, to drown it out.

Tan Oil

I lie down to sunbathe:

the sand burns

and oil shines on my abs,

pooling in my bellybutton

with sweat,

clinging to the hair.

A lost ant

crawls over my nipple.

Someone is watching.

I need it,

his wanting me.

I want to sweat down,

to cook

and melt, to sink

and drain out,

absorbed by the ground.

I catch my own musk,

its rising bitterness,

its honey note.