Territory is suburbia is an atlas of orange-bricked battlelines. Where driveway mouths spit mortar like broken teeth and cold wars cauterise domestic skin. This is where I have mapped you.
a storm hymnal
When the sky bleeds out of this heat blister, it will wash away nothing. Passionfruit will lay defeated by the fence. Territorial birds will remain the aggressors.
mynah bird, mickey
I meet you at your depth and let your breath push blood around my body. We make an ampersand of arms and legs and you whisper “this is not a safe distance”.
I remember thinking that forever might feel like this – eyelid-crepe delicacy (my lips), ear lobe softness (your teeth). A cup of tea gone cold beside my shoes.
lips to cheek to neck to lips
Somewhere, a casement window bangs. First I taste blood then the thick blade of storm-metal. In the kitchen, AM radio makes leaf-litter conversation.
last session before tea
You leave the garden hose running in the afternoon rain. Yesterday, curled up in the letterbox. Leatherwood pleasure is folded in a pocket, in a dovecote, in a crowded space.
Territory is suburbia is an atlas of orange-bricked battlelines. Where cyclone wire fences protect us from nothing. Unsolicited mail keeps coming. I can always find your hand in the dark.