.Sunglasses In Bed.

Grasshopper glances are not fair so early in the morning
When the footprints of my dreams have not yet faded.
My smile is still fresh,
My palms outstretched,
and I forget, again,
to wear sunglasses.

At night I say, ‘You can stay here all day,
tangling your breath with mine. I promise you
coffee, gollywog black,
and arctic showers,
Just as long as you leave me
More broken lemon tree branches,
And don’t mind if I wear
sunglasses in bed.’

.Midnight Reflection.

Bed, and instead of sleep, my
Reflection, messy and merciless, milky
in its faded glow.

And how the silence tolls,
tickling the corners
while I, tutu pink and clam-grey pale,
Blink in non-morse code;
bat-like, battling the light.
Still secrets swim, suspicious and sore and
Much too smart for fishermen.

.It’s Nothing.

I feel you squirming in my belly,
A silly urban smile fluttering like breath.
Then I realise that it’s just the flush of wine
Sinking deep inside me.

My mouth is agape, unfulfillable hopes
Floating; forgotten before they are remembered.
Sometimes I feel you in me still,
As if you didn’t fall out like a silent dream.
You were nothing before you were something
And now I’m making something out of nothing…
Though I suppose that’s the way you began.

.It’s Nothing.

I feel you squirming in my belly,
A silly urban smile fluttering like breath.
Then I realise that it’s just the flush of wine
Sinking deep inside me.

My mouth is agape, unfulfillable hopes
Floating; forgotten before they are remembered.
Sometimes I feel you in me still,
As if you didn’t fall out like a silent dream.
You were nothing before you were something
And now I’m making something out of nothing…
Though I suppose that’s the way you began.

.Beats Me.

Beats me, the colour of his eyes.
I remember only flocatti,
Dirty, spiking me like thistles
So that I blew my marble dust
out and over
his skin.

Beats me, the number of branches
On the lemon tree outside.
I remember the neck was not familiar,
And how the seconds rattled by,
boulders in the sands of time.
And it struck me like a tomahawk
That I was getting blurry round the edges,
That my fingers were thickening,
That my life no longer rhymed.

.Morning After Chill.

Shaking, marble grey, as the restlessness of having
nothing to itch hits seven years late. Skin is tight,
S t r e t c h e d like a smile
Under hands that are hungry and weak.

There is laughter between my legs
As I reach for something I do not understand.

Morning lips find me, draping like ivy but I
wince, coffee bitter, though I should be
open to this, since it’s been
a while since I’ve had a spoonful of
sugar.

.I Do.

As if there’s a piano on your skin.

Fingers banging naughty notes
That shouldn’t make sense.

But I do.

Stripes of bruises glow
Black on your thigh,
Eight kisses deep,
Each chased by a sigh.

The key to your smile changes, but your laughter is cheap;
its bitterness pounds off the glass ceiling.
When I point at
it, it thins
bubble-thick, and
POP!
I catch 22 mirrors on my tongue.

Tick, tock,
Tick, tock.
I count white lies to seduce sleep.
I don’t want to dream.

But I do.