i have a thin drop of water
between my thumb and index finger
that i play with when it rains;
you leap through the warmth
that comes with your tall summers;
everywhere i look, everyone is the same,
moving, writhing in the heat.
i am jealous. i am still. i am cold.
i am here,
in my southern winter,
my fever of snow.

the writer, the renowned historian,
who was admired by the young man from the southern valley,
does not know he will not survive the reaping.
this young man, he begs the writer,
'please, carve me into your hands, into your fingers,
into your fingernail,'
the writer looks down at his letter, and smiles,
'young chickpea,' he croons,
'you have yet to realise,
that it is i that shall be buried in yours.'

i can barely feel the world around me
on this cold winters night
but the wine in my belly
and the stars in my eyes
set my veins alight
as i think of the tender touch of a lover
their hands melting along my jaw
this ache, this longing
runs wet
like fingers inside my mouth

silver is the colour of a knife
tucked into an ancient tunic
before being curled
into the chest of a dictator;

silver is the colour of thirty round pieces
placed in the palm of a disciple
who presses his lips
against a warm cheek;

silver is the colour of a pistol
shaking in the hand of a vice-president
with the smoke twisting around itself
before history catches up;

silver is gold's shadow,
the patron hue of those
born in the dust
of greatness.

alas!
i am in love.
i am in love with despair,
with the feeling of pushing people away.
oh, the satisfaction that they will never know me
quenches my thirst like nothing else.
i feel them leaving,
and the thick voice inside me drips with praise,
smiling sweetly against my teeth.
how charming is sorrow,
how heavenly the vindication.

the man turns around, they are close enough that the earth's light hits his cheek
and she sees him.
she sees him, his face,
his dark, possessive eyes
and perhaps she turns around too

the siren calls out from her sea-wrought rock;
the ocean lapping at her speckled wings;
i will always throw myself off the dock;
to drown below as her grinning mouth sings.

i do not remember serving a feast;
nor descending to obey the fruit tree;
tantalus tries but God thinks of us least;
for the both of us will never be free.

when i bind my long hair upon my head;
triumphant samson lifts his callused hands;
for when delilah leads us to her bed;
still we will sing her song across the lands.

temptation my religion, doomed am i;
to slither the earth in order to fly.