a feast upon the
wound
to cleanse what
won’t be
cured,
embracing
the discolour
of bruising under
teeth.
time sits
thick
like the smell
of fish
in the back of
my throat
on a broken down
vacation
boat
aimed at open
sea.
shadow
marionettes
on a screen hung
above my
bed,
the fadeout tv set
behind our live
show..
bursts with flickers and breaks
in programming,
who pulls the strings
for what moves the imagination?
feasting upon
flame
to feel desire’s
taste
upon tongues that
yearns to feel
it burn
as ashes
frost the face.
swanlike
but self-conscious
rippling just above
fresh sheets,
she drops below
the surface
in pursuit of
privacy.
as solid as air in
my throat
like
you spoke
of such dreamscapes
since fallen by
waysides
in landslides we scrape
for earth’s
surface
to find nothing above us
but time.
you flowered in pinks
and yellows
and as the sky worshiped you
with sun-dance
eyes
i watched you bend to no breeze
standing strong where
you grow-
a treasure that need not
be told you
are so.
lead and leave me
nowhere
so all i see’s the back
of heads,
then text me your position
and i’ll swim
the air
to find you
there.
my shadow takes
up little
space
when the air’s
sucked
out
of rooms so
vast
no whisper’s
felt
upon the neck
or back.
you smile in
scarlet,
i nod
in shyness
though you see
thru my
ruse,
then wink with
coyness,
i blush, in
earnest
for reasons clear
only to
you.
hands in the garden 
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