Slightly Dinted Poetry

I will bring you slightly dinted poetry.

Bring volumes of it, as I promised.

I will sing unselfconsciously, of longings

from the early nineteen eighties.

I’ll sing them in the kitchen, steaming,

in the hot and foaming bathwater.

I will ring you late sweet nothings,

whispered in your bedside ear.

I will ring you both sides of midnight

in your cotton underwear.

And, in the curtained candlelight,

I will write you poetry; lightly; slanted.