Do you remember dashing through sheaves of pampas grass
until we were in that breathless light?
Milling through the darkness with frayed hope;
our hands still with pallid knuckles of rural decay.
An umbilical tug of energy – tender and unsettling.
We passed bridges like blood lines
where ducks freckled the water plain,
gliding and sending a sonar signal across that Adam’s ale.
Birds shook from the trees and the wind scalped our skin like a tin roof in a cold wind.
With a hunters moon and arrows on our back for the night,
there was an anarchy of feeling in our bones and I said,
‘Go, and when you come back, bring the world with you.’
You found pieces of us so we could sleep on feathers and fear,
kneading breath and water; serving air and platitudes.