Dreams of you
I dream of you - I lie awake;
my thoughts caught out,
like stagnant ripples
in a pool of old and polished wood.
Summer moments; beads of sweat
upon your skin - your arms
and brows and thighs and on that
tender wishbone field of lust.
I dream of you - I lie awake,
now locked, like falling rain
inside the lizard sweep
of yellow head-lights,
half-mesmerized by this triumvirate of
all surrounding wisshh wisshh sounds
of rubber, rain and asphalt.
The smell of fresh, cut grass
and bits of goblin caught between
the blades: a meaty, leaf-root taste
of lazy evenings.
Hints of sweat and fur
and swollen moons now waiting
to come down through moments
of lost clouds and white and ghosts
and all half-murmured expectations -
holding bits of you upon my tongue.
I dream of you - I lie awake.
The sleepy, summer evening sound
of crickets, hidden in the dark
spills from the old projector room,
where reels of Chaplin, reels of Bogart
reels of laughter and goodbyes
lie waiting - waiting - for
that first and tiger yellow burst
of brittle light
that reaches - finds, and captures
a million particles of dust, now held
like promises of other worlds,
like strange goodbyes and even stranger Gods.
The silver ghosts of ice-cream vans,
the children safely locked inside
our ageing flesh -
my skin, your solid bones become
the kite that soars: a dragon wing -
and all of you and me,
like sparks ascending,
like the moon, caught
in some summer dream
of silver rivers, slowly moving
through the fields of night.