Friday, 29 May 2015

Ballroom Victories

There is a cold, which cracks the ribs
From the beneath the crown
Of the human heart, and you dig deep
My love, and I feel the dull gold in my fingers
Infinitely chilled, infinitely valuable.


It is a trick, sometimes we perform
Beneath those shrill lights of the morning walk
Where lines carry their candles, arm in miserable arm
And all I see is the waves
And ask
Is it warm?


The casket of your hands, my love
The chalk, of that fine-drawn mouth
Where you talk, talk, talk.
You are a geographical entity.
Incense meshes the breath
and you come back to me.


It is on another edge I pause
Ah, we’ve been here times before
Take a long dry draw of the winter
And watch it dissipate, plate those lips
With ice
As you bear me up through this
Veritable flood of
Old hands which have shaken

More than twice.