It was the Wilmslow house – south of
Manchester, east of Liverpool – 

where you retreated to counter
the cackle, to rest – recover

from the procedure, within view
of the radiant foxglove. She

found you that June morning laid out
like a medical Venus strewn

on the couch, or Antinous in
Hadrian’s Nile, left arm bent back,

hand softly cradling your head,
digits disturbing proper part,

disheveled – face pressed to elbow’s
crease. Right arm draped cross your torso,

hand hung loose, open. The apple –
bitten, browning – loosed to the floor.