The Love Poem of an Arctic Tern

This is my love poem, it is called
The Love Poem of an Arctic Tern,
it’s only a first draft: It’s all boredom, really, I mean
after the first starved intakes
of breath after which the moon
and sun cease to move. It’s a lark. Can’t
find a crèche that stays open. Twice
a year there’s a point where
the line in the 8 crosses itself
and we feel like something might
happen. But it’s a spring-clean. Don’t
fret. The cows’ll come home. Two
rapierists will meet and part. A
headwind will make sure your cut is
clean – a short bob. In the end we’ll
forget the point of arguing about
whether it’s a pepper or a capsicum.
Your menstrual mobius disentangles, and
that’s the end of the poem, really.