It’s been a good year for poets writing about sex. Compelling new books by Richard Scott, Danez Smith and Kate Tempest have captured the emotional mangle of physical love – in each case from a queer perspective – with warmth, pain and intimacy.

To that list, it would be easy to add Andrew McMillan’s equally page-turning second collection playtime. His confessional debut, 2015’s physical, certainly seemed to fit the bill; a frank exploration of modern masculinity, it ended up on half a dozen prize lists and was praised in one review for its “hymns to intimacy”.

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