when love was just a thigh bones flute

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;