CORTIJO
At El Cortijo, with coffee
tilting right and left
in talk weird as alcohol,
a little dark one backed
into my knee, didn't
look round. . . just sat on it.
No introduction! She took
my femur for a public perch,
and in that exhilarant
fluctuation of conversation
quivered
like a kitten ready to bounce.
I wrung myself with love
for the finely wound nerve of her,
balanced there,
and the way loose hairs
half-twisted
at her palpitating nape.
Disturbed by my rude eye
she twitched round to glare
my grin into a grimace,
then looked back
but didn't budge
her delicate handful of bum.