Early pm
our dialogue floats and trails, rambles
along the circular path that follows
the stream, forks
around two houses, turns
back into the main road
The regular odours
of engines hang
around the close, percolate
through our hair
We stand on the apron
next to the stalks of wind-wrecked tulips
ticking moments of staunched hypocrisy
We mouth our humour
voice the usual suspicions
fix the mix
Later, at home
I think about the For Sale sign
nailed to your wall
~ ~ ~
Skin & Bruises
Maybe the scent of the roses
dark pink one side, light pink the other
let me abandon caution
It seemed like a good idea to shelter from the drizzle
under the ornamental arch in the public gardens
although everyone else had gone home
I explored your shoulders and neck
little straps and bones
fell into your skin and bruises