The Cantabrigian

Off-centre, I am moved like a string-climbing toy weevil though she displaces
Me laterally onto one thigh, so that by tugging one string
Of my lust while letting the other rise, she ratchets the part that debases
My image of her to the wing;

That part of me which daydreams to appraise almost anybody I might know,
Ascribing one of three sexual acts to perform in cases
Of far-fetched strandedness, only one, leant a frisson by the two I forgo,
By their stricture leaving traces.

Such reveries of being marooned, and introversion when it replaces
Globalisation, of being reconciled to consensual
Acts desirous of incidental milieu, when democracy outpaces
Our options, of eventual

Mutual impulses in associates to soothe in their isolation,
Such reveries impair connectedness.