Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

That faceless space across the table
must be filled. Even the air      
               tonight tastes stale. You are forced to chew it,
a rank ragweed flavor that whiskey can’t kill.
Let life in. Let the screen flicker, let men flare

across the room at you. His brushy black
hair pearls with nectar rain             
as he bends over to stoke the fire.          
He is cold, soaked through, and must dry his clothes. He draws
his turtleneck over his head, and the tine grain                          

of water can be seen in closeup
spraying the screen. The shirt 
           next, then the pants. He stands near-naked,
dressed only n a white loincloth, and firelight
strokes the silk of his skin, flickers with overt

fingers up his belly, across his chest.
You can imagine the smell       
           of wet hair, the smell of wet wool that clings
to him as the camera brushes the shadows
around every muscle, making your eye swell

with excitement as it glides along.
At this point, seconds before      
he drops his loincloth, the lens should pan
upward as a girl breaks in from the storm. Instead,
a long white cloth slips off camera onto your floor.

Millions of viewers must have wondered
what happened to him. You stand
and his body is flat against your own,
          as though pushed through a door in space. His hair is damp
on your forehead; his back cool. You drop one hand

onto his rump and then both as you touch
his firmness. Now your palms pass
up and down his sides, and you consume
the unaccustomed food of skin against clothing.
You kiss and your teeth hit hard, a taste of glass.