the fall

my arms aren’t long enough.

i need go-gadget arms

to reach back in time.

3000 days ago.

to when i could touch you,

to when touching was just what was done.

knees under celluloid,

hot stomachs on hot backs

forehead butting like sheeps under arms

toward chest,

fingertips on earlobes.

mouths.

with my go-gadget arms

i’d reach back.

stretch through the days,

these days that won’t pass

but instead hang,

accumulating concrete slabs in my chest.

i’d stretch and touch old time

lingering

i’d touch your liver again

without asking.

Lover, I’m burning.

Can’t you see I’m burning?

My magnetic North

by North West

is missing.

And I am on fire.

And no one can see.

No one sees.

I’m prowling round drains,

scavenging.

Hurling myself down telegraph wires,

scuttering about.

I’m snooping in puddles.

Elsewhere people are trying on hats,

making small talk around buffet tables,

and ticking off lists.

They are wiping drool from mouths,

steeling themselves to smile today,

and rolling in hay.

They float.

You walked across the screen in another man’s clothes,

an old old man’s clothes.

An old old man who was once someone’s old flame.

In cotton it’s easy.

We go to Clevedon,

pretend nooks in castles are ours,

make fires across lands,

pretend to ski,

visit the universe at the other end of the bed.

I wake to keep dreaming.

To dream of ways to swap sides.

Bring night to day and

put the darkness in the drawer,

back where it belongs.

Tucked in the furls of reverie.

A naïve melody. I hum.

Pick me up and turn me round.

Lover, I’m burning.

Can’t you see I’m burning?

Please turn around.