Holding
There are ripe callouses
on one of my palms –
a furrow of skin
in my walking stick hand
My limbs are nettled –
a tease of scratches
which paint my shins
with blood-dried patches
The constant cut pain
scythes my stilly squalls –
‘Just a walk to Waitrose’
is a distance too cruel
I lie fixed by the duvet
that weighty cover
Here reduced by time –
my sadistic lover.