wordwhorse

hills are lovemaking and soul destroying

rainthickened clouds roll overhead

and I am closer than I wish to be

camouflaged in grasscoats and forests

blue to green to grey

the colour of my eyes

and there is movement specked into sight

as the atmosphere heaves it changes around

my head

her sides, for she is a breast, a mammary or vessel for milking the sky

sliproll away sharp breathed as I dizzy at the

lurch of earth beneath my thought

lying back and become the sky

expanded rib to ozone

and the sun itself lies down along my body curling the grasses

in their scents about me

I am curve and nipple, flattened by her weight below

I bend to fit the ground and sky in their singular moulded line

curvelined sharp chameleoneyed this flickered speck.

hills are lovemaking and soul destroying.

there is power in the silence

of our bodies.

do not move

within me your self.

do not breathe

your rhythms through

me.

hold. hold.

swell for the holding.

I grip. the calm that keeps you still.

and there are no ripples of

breathing. in the motion

of our stillness.

yet.

a condensation.

thickening heavy.

an unbearable gravity.

of being.

one.

and then the breathing begins.

your physical kiss
comes to me as a
definition or unbound
presence
a deconstruction of
my boneridged edges

I am still small

quiet

a stone

a weighted presence to

your absence

that shifts & fades &

returns like a

watched horizon

I watch the paraders pass by

thank them for their vulnerability and wait

wait for the sweated smell of angry desperation to shift

and buckle

opening a shimmering of something else  – something a little sideways

a little uncontained

a little fume of heat rising off the long hot bitumen.