when love was just a thigh bones flute
that circled the corners of my naive
a bright coloured child with an asparagus foot;
short hem soles in the gaps of my teeth
a settled grief for the oysters of my tandom cycled scortch;
scotch sand beneath a waters north dead ridge;
tillerman steers as rears the fractions of my feed
in harpoon roots in monsoon swells of vanilla ice;
when cold became a member of my skin
a corn-tailed steel on a wheat-beast bed of coy
stone soiled as I grew a shallow grave;
a barrows wheel where once my tundra rolled
with a red savoy on my capers crystal cheer;
ghost cheese haunts from the choir of my sleep;
a bargain bruise for the shillings of my arms
on a sand dunes stage where blows a trumpet bell;
how distant now the spinning of my clay
turquoise bread for my tortoise shell that shields October skies
crawling with the apples of my eyes;
who wants now this rainbow of my storm?
the sacred key for the padlock to my chest?
there are no eyes left in this kingdom of second sight;
this guildhall pool where once your unbuttoned blouse
gave comfort to my calloused hands
as we gazed into a seahorse heart
and wished all things eternal;
when love was just a thigh bones flute;
when once we danced to the music of our flavour;
when never once,
did we care to dance with the dancing chairs of doubt
in a distance too far from our eyes;