Small as the hand that caresses your hair
“You know, the moon is just a violin
that longs to be repaired.”
. (Rachel Manley)
I close my eyes and I see lightning
running down my veins and hear
the drums of thunder gather in my wrists.
The outside world is as small
as the hand that caresses your hair
and notes the soft fall and rise of your breasts.
I close my eyes and everything but
the smell of our lust and the sound of our breath,
the whisper of flesh on fresh sheets is unmade,
like the moon is undone by the rooster’s rise
and the land and the sea are conquered in turn
by the same kind of tides that bind our flesh
and carry us out,
like one fever foam wave,
to a place that no-one can enter alone.