A surge of thighs, air
rasping the long lungs:
with horrified eyes, they
pump up the pristine track,

craning their wet necks
to catch quick shimmers
of time on viscid tongues.
Their lips suck the air

like painful sugar-cane:
the clench of their teeth
as, scenting ending, they
dunk their faces in space.

From Robinson Crusoe's Bank Holiday Monday