Kissing Edwin Morgan by Roddy Lumsden

seems uncanny because he is gay
and I am straight and because the day
is especially cold. A hungry kisser,
kissing him brings out the hive
that is him. A hive, are you with me?
Grey buildings. Check. Difficulties?
Check. I’m wrong for him, loose boy.
We are on a corner, of course we are,
then in an alley smooching. He talks
of the desert, distant rivers, Greekery,
the absolutes I will always fail to claim.
I smooth him. Rats run the terrace
we are dallying on. He nods, says yes.
To whatever. I hug him. Of course I do.
Love limits us, over, over, specialising
in this twisted limb of science. A bus
passes and we both wave to the world,
its merry passengers, its dour chance.
I have a train or plane to catch, I pat
his perfect shoulder, say farewell.
And then it is the night, alone. Night,
the second best escape; walk, walk in
a heavy coat. Maybe the future needs you.