The Poetry Society Celebrating our centenary

All night mopeds putter in the street,

a salsa band's bass-lines throb from

the beach where fire-eaters jay-walk,

swigging paraffin, gobbing flame -

los diablos - lurching from shadow

to shadow, their faces painted

against the light.

The crowd's last sardane

leaves the town too hot to sleep,

think, make love; sheets shroud us,

sweating out the sea we swam in.

A half-moon laps at us

like a pale, aristocratic cat;

we sleep fitfully, wake fevered,

night-sweats quickening our hearts,

dawn's chill on damp pillows.

Rain varnishes the street, liquefied light

streaming over slantwise stone;

now you are calmly noticing me,

something the night left unexplained

in your bed.

Moon's counter weight raises the sun;

our mouths bitter as peach-stones,

your stung lips tender to the kiss.