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Somewhere within your untended hedgerow,
somewhere tufted and leafy, sleeps curled up

a small hibiscus demon, all aglow
with need, like a drunk on rot-gut julep.

Aren’t we like demons; our souls are stingy
with love but underneath we weep for not

being touched, kissed, possessed. Celibacy
is a myth, darling. I know what you thought

that you could live – or at least love – alone.
I shall part your hedge like Moses, go down

into your bower, find that plum-blossom
brute, kiss it awake, watch it gasp and groan,

watch it purr; soothe your pain, smooth your frown.
Love shall make us a threesome.