Between Hallowe'en and Bonfire Night

Just then, encountering my ruddy face 
in the grand piano's cold black craquelure, 
it conjured the jack-o'-lantern moon 
dipping up over the roofs of the Tenderloin. 
 
Only when I have done with the myths— 
the inner spill that triggers us to flame, 
breasts so sensitive a moment's touch 
will call down fever; the dark sea-lane 
 
between limbic squall and the heart's harbour— 
will I picture you, just beyond innocence, 
lying stripped by a thrown-wide window, 
letting the cool breeze covet your ardour.