The accent from
above; glove over
glove, folding flames
into the hearts of love.

And through those eyes -
as cold as caves -
rest the memories
of men made slaves.

There is a space.
A space
which sleeps between
this seeping becoming
of words
and bristling grass
of afternoons

the space which hits
this auditorium of dark
flecked light of time
with fingernail tallies
and the hanging gift
outside

I wear the promise of my skin,
I am the numb of numbers -
In silence there's no breath
for questions.

Once glimpsed; hate's guise encircles the soul.
This insidious sentinel strikes its camp
until mercenary thoughts like shadows come.

And what deeds are yet to be done
when man parades understanding
while the leopard senses the antelope?

So I have nothing to say about hatred,
as my words are but a distant murmur -
like a whispered request for more guns.

Somewhere a phone is ringing,
someone is getting on a train
one connection; generations -
shoes hushed off by the door.

Evening is being unpicked again,
unstitched and shushed through
the lounge; nervous of the needle,
close to the station, he jumps

into his name again. Her finger
dials the numbers; sensing
the hole in his heart.
In the scale of a second,

her call is answered;
he kisses the points on her map.