Impossible space (for Zaha Hadid)

Within the Peak Leisure Club
there is a wanton kind of chase,
of serpents, in a serpentine fashion.

I rip a space in me
to accommodate you.
Reluctance is feigned, not felt —

until the floating curve
of a heart is brought sharp
by the exaggerated bite

of a part-time pair of
pinking shears declaring
it’s only here for the pictures.