Aubade by Ken Poyner My beloved is waiting in the barn With a potter’s trowel. She made Excuses at dinner, was allowed to leave The recklessly untethered table Before the maiden dessert course. Out of the back air lock she ran, Over the gravel to the guttering cries of the Unicellular creatures in the cracks left Between individual stones, her tungsten Boots quivering along the rapture of Her sandpaper thighs, her mouth cocked Into the round O of a galactic serendipity. Here I am, hands in my proud pockets, Wanting to know what animal she will be, What languages we will bury between us. As I pass - disquieted from the dark Of our open sea into the light Of the closed barn, with a snap And a spin and a joy of too many Testicles - she, leather-backed and stamen crested, Tosses me the slither and coil of that trowel, And I am instantly bemoaned: I am to be judged. My love, I disband into intentions, And with loathsome joy I dig. Gyroscope Review 22 !