Mr Lowe is so gangly
he could have splintered
long limb by long limb
from a triptych by El Greco.

Obsessed with green peppers
and sheep skulls he plays
Emmylou Harris and Doobie Brothers
on a rickety turntable,

shows us creaky slides
of The Impressionists. Thighs! Whoa
— thighs! he roars as Gordon Vaughan shows signs
of smirking at a porky Renoir nude.

Paper, he says, is precious.
One afternoon when he nips out
we raid his cupboard.
A pile of matchboxes teeters

falls, unslots its treasure
of dried wasps across the tiles.
Here, there and everywhere
Emmylou trills as we scuffle

on hands and knees gleeful,
and incredulous over the chequered floor;
freeze, like Escher leaves,
as the door edges open.