|Love songs 1, 2|
One hot mouthful of breath pressed against the page.
One warm rest set against you.
One small place alone
could you tell this from looking?
How is this recorded -
the lines of blood I see under your eyelids.
and how would it be possible for you to see these things
so delicate in gesture, almost to the point of tears.
It seems that it is in the placement of two things together, or the creases of a
blanket folded twice over.
Perhaps it is pricked in your skin, in the coolness of a room unoccupied.
through touch, action, breath.
This space is calm without you,
the stillness of the air returns,
the walls flatten out and attract the light.
Variations on the same theme. Bed, wall, mine, corners.
On the rippling lino,
crystallising patches of
sugar, water, light.
I think, same again. I think, house. Live, be around the place and
Your softly ruled lines have scraped into the paper.
Walking or driving at night.
Light moving over,
Pools of orange light.
When the roads are more like black seas,
choppy with small waves.
Seal skin on the bitumen.
In the dark every facet reflects the light.
Oily with multicoloured scum and slick,
deep it looks but there is only surface.