Sweet, treacherous, longed-for cadence,
when they leap towards each other
and he takes hold of her,
his right hand low on her back,
his left below her breast,

My chiropodist says stilettos weren’t designed for Anglo-Saxon feet.

What the hell are Anglo-Saxon feet?

The short stubby kind. He says I’ve got them, and yours are the same as mine, so it must be genetic; we can blame Mum and Dad.

Carcasses accuse, but live roos clench hearts
too, when seemingly still between bleached Gum 
and dark Mulga, they leap, and you can’t swerve.