eaked through a piece of cloth.

‘the mouth’
you were meant be;
calmed
or else led-
to be calmed
once more
and allowed through the gate quietly;

so says the day
that reaches across day
churning the streets
until silenced
by life;
and nursed back to fury

by the peace of words
from human mouth
without the faintness of sense
they are different to yours;

no matter which world
you see hanging around
the mouth of furness
and steps
inside you
welcome you
deeply

there’s no fixing our pulse
there’s only fixing
our expressions
of it, that love our play,
the hedge cutters know it best,
the gambits that pull our actions from sleep
and clip a square heart into bush
and the ministers and bed louse
know it best

and nothing knows it best;
whilst here
as we do

something as small
as dancing through
and from within time
of womb bone and jaw
and knowing your gleaming
mate
is equal,
to your fear
of absolute passion

knows you best.