On days like this trees shine,
leaves spill light,
the garden is a flood,
rooftops full-flowing weirs.
I am swept along.
You, who collects sunlight
on the spatulas of your fingers
(it clings to you like pollen),
curl a hand upward,
to loosen out your hair;
Oh, I wish my eyes were barrels.
When you pass
cups miss mouths,
ladders slip,
buckets crash down,
cars veer,
cyclists swerve,
drunkards sober up,
poles and policemen collide,
business men miss kerbs,
schoolboys drool.
Me? I’m just your wing mirror,
enjoying the devastation
behind you.
My mother’s china cracked
because of that blue;
a brittle blue.
Your eyes are blood-shot :
bolts of lightening
crack your gaze.
Sitting at this round sky’s
centre I can gauge
the universe’s balance.
Your irises;
for an hour, two, three,
I am Galileo.
I watched the film on her face;
settled into that landscape
of shadows flitting, as images
scudded across the screen.
I could spend a lifetime
beneath that sky;
grow old like a fisherman
whose eyes are burnished
from watching weather;
his face tattooed from living it.
He thinks I do not notice;
he never once looked at the screen.
But wrapped up snug in his feather down gaze
I was electricity,
played the film on my face
so he could read inside me,
and then, if he liked what he saw,
he would be mine.
When I am sleeping
you come
softly over these stones;
I turn deeper.
You slip words into my ears,
liquid syllables,
sickles sliding down.
Night-time turns drunk;
longing for more,
your tongue to enwrap me;
I turn deeper.
You trickle down dreams;
our limbs braided,we slip into one.
