There is no indecision.
Just the untangling of hair
you manage to do so elegantly
just as your door rises akimbo to the air.
The clang of chain takes a crack
at chipping away your softness,
but nothing can touch you.
You graft to my pupil; that absence of fear
swimming in your eyes; sailing on your skin
to a gentler harbour.
Urban cowboy – smile a tripwire.
Some mornings you are quiet in stare,
cutting a lonely figure, looking past what is in front of you
(restless rivers run deep)
and there are days your body lopes,
moving around all limber like you’ve just walked out of the ocean,
having washed away time-worn algorithms
by holding your breath under water until the panic becomes peace.
The heels of my boots skip across asphalt to cross the road.
Stain my neck with your wine soaked mouth, pour milk into my coffee,
hoist me onto the table in the cantina –
layering up my skirt and ruining my finery.
Do you sell boxfuls of faith?
Because you’re almost here, but just about gone.
Or do I kiss you from a tree, sticky with pregnant fruit
only to fall into your ripened hands?