The first time she sees him he's waist deep
in the milky water of the Blue Lagoon,
his broad chest, tattoos on show. She tastes the smell
of sulphur, feels a lover's caress of mud
on her soles. Confident as a trebuchet, his body
is the curtain walls of a castle and, as he talks
of poaching fish in the Pacific, she pictures
an old-fashioned pirate ship; stands close, hoping
for grappling irons to pull her in.

The second time she sees him he's in bouncer stance,
eyes everywhere like lights from watchtowers
swinging across the crowds.
He feels trouble buzzing like electricity
through a chain link fence, sees three moves ahead
but behind him - the priests,
some dead, all haunting, their hard voices,
soft hands. The walls are mined
and it's only a matter of time before they blow.