By | 15 February 2008

We don’t speak of ourselves
with the same coloured eyes
any more,

or with a honeyed sweetness
on the tongue. We taste
our bodies with the caress

of a hand,
a surreptitious foray
into the dark

of fingers touching fingers.
The smell of coffee

This place
built between hills,
reminds me

of a woman's pelvis.
On a cold day
it becomes the focal point

of brightness, of expressions
of deep growth,
a moist reek

of beginnings –
people first up in the morning,
pushing out faces

blinking in the winter,
the frost on wires,
blowing small thermal eruptions

from pink mouths.
I lick in the caffeine
as if I’d just been kissed.

Being born each day
in the unravelling of trees,

in the forcing apart of dark skies.
I take to the road
shoving back

the crisply-cut hedges,
the glow-worm curtains. And
there's always the latecomers,

the stragglers
drifting home to their holes
after dark.

The morning is a flawless
brilliance of waking
and a jewelled dampness

mirrors the appearance of others.
I seem to be living
in the transparent softness

of a giant lens
far from the way
we discovered ourselves

night-struck, but surviving –
the contusions of dreams
slowly healing.

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