We make love with the light turned off

below the surface
in the deep sea - so far down
that no sunlight reaches in

At this point the day is no more

.

We are poised at the earth's axis
The hours are flowing

back and forth
like the bubble in a spirit level

Dead men climb the church walls
with fingers like tentacles

In November

we dress ourself in dark-skinned coats
merged with our head

And from both mouth and nostrils
our breath pour out

as white smoke in the cold air
.