humid November Saturday
Pindan grit and smoke haze
tease the softer edges
of the flat blue blanket
that is Broomes’ sky today,
a wet shag pile
of sticky anticipation
and trepidation.
The cleansing tempest
wanting time or more sweat,
glueing shirts to backs
melting wax faces,
and steaming raw salads.
A mocking breeze
makes poolside palms
whisper longings
or laughter
at me, lily white and languid
I am all horizontal suggestions,
toes twinkling in waters,
wanting to submerge
and swim to eternity.
But today,
being the beautiful you that you are,
let me swim in you.
Hands of time dead ant
like a crazed drill sargeant
pounding out the passage
of faded youth.
For the remaining degrees
of your suns slow travels,
I segment you.
Squeeze your ascorbic juice
over summer lips,
freckles,
spots of sunscreen not rubbed in
and the bronzed anatomy
of my minds eye,
squinting.
When the slice of kahlua,
viscous and delicious
seeps into the afternoon,
I will dream of her.
She, who should have all these fruits,
a banquet that will never be tasted
or savoured,
this day could be ours.
Cracked peppermint heart
leaks your love
over unfocused stares,
wings of wonder,
memory and fantasy
fused like paired atoms,
forgetting to blink,
deeply sighing
and you’re always here, somewhere.
Like many before
and many more to come,
formless clones of days spent pining
only needing momentum
to manifest,
as a sleight of hand,
as a plague,
as a shadow.
Cotton pillow clouds bear witness
as they roam the borders
of what these words capture.
Salty kisses,
half biting
with a lost desperation,
hands full of knotted, sand choked hair,
wet hips slide along wetter thighs.
But we’ll never be naked
until we shed Novembers
like drought scorched husks.
Stacking our spent bodies
on a groaning recliner,
watching everything change
as a new heat unfolds
like a premonition.
Your hair still in my mouth,
every word
the after-play of echoes,
moaning declarations
of a love
stronger than yesterday,
pregnant with tomorrow.
We may as well be an island
in an alien aquarium,
azure moat
a dolphins playground
fertile enough for mermaids, perhaps
and one more happily ever after.
Lost in now
this beautiful day,
currents of the hours
stream by
like spilt oil.
If I was marooned here with you,
your story telling eyes
and smile of quiet dignity
today, I would consider you complete.
(2014)
Préféré par...
