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.

wet green moss and winter calves,
sly smiles and limoncello laughs;
carbonara grins and giggly eyes,
tiny cigarettes and wide open skies;
mournful ruins and teasing remarks,
sneezes in naples but bright roman sparks;
sleepy bus journeys and the back of your head,
etruscan bronze and paintings of bread;
late night laundry thinking of you,
heart rate climbing as you came into view;
you hear my bad puns and i love your low chuckle,
you grin at me and my walls unbuckle;
my stammering voice and your comforting gaze,
i will remember this time until the end of our days.

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.

last night i went to the beach.
it was four degrees and i was shaking like the waves,
herons and pied shags darted overhead,
their long necks stretching out against the lavender sky.
my two friends were laughing at my sides, carefree,
i watched them snapping their heads back, chests expanding,
their glee echoing off the upturned sand,
my own joy echoing from my heart.

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.

do you know of echo the oread?
whose harmless passion did collide with wrath,
for this mountain nymph did make the queen mad,
such her life was sentenced a silent path;

given the gift of the last words she heard,
echo was to only repeat these notes,
for her own sweet voice was without a word,
only to be found in other mens' throats;

i think of echo this late winter night,
and all the men who did silence her voice,
who have made my own sharp throat seize up tight,
making me feel like i did not have choice;

i tell you, echo, do not let them win,
discard their words and shoot them a dark grin.

feet planted in the dirt,
the painter sways on the edge of the hill
wild ferns curling around his thighs
and pollen dusting his collarbone.
a canvas, as pale as his wifebeater,
is slotted onto the creaking easel.
the air is thick with sunshine
and it drips from his temple
before sliding down his shoulders.
birds whistle and swoop,
the thrum of the trees behind him
hum in appreciation and contentment.
the sweet wind is warm on the back of his neck,
and he departs with tinges of yellow behind his ear.

bright phoebus trails a hand in the brush to feel the flowers catch and snag between slender fingers;
fields of grass wrap themselves over the rounded hills;
violets stretch in the hot sun;
the enormous oak tree behind reaches out and skims the surface of the heavens;
the wasps make nest in its branches, darting out and around the occasional plummeting acorn;
the air ripples with the sweetness of hyacinths;
the cypresses line the horizon, a herd of deer graze in their shadows;
the man [who is not a man] rests against the trunk, sighing, eyeing the budding laurel tree that shivers in the warm breeze;
the Cyrean hives hum pleasantly;
twin calves plod towards the man [who is not a man], and a palm is reached out to caress their young heads;
everything is sweet;
everything is lush;
everything is warm.

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.

sometimes i watch myself from the passenger seat.
this driver, this version of me, she is too fast, too reckless.
let me drive, i tell her. let me back in.
but she keeps going, and all i can do is hold on tight,
and pray that we soon get back on track.

i can never tell them.
this is one of the two things i realised when i turned sixteen.
the other, well, it isn't hard to guess.
tearful confessions, anger, acceptance, indifference.
each prospect as possible as the next. i don't care.
all i know is that everything will change.
everything will change and i will become irreverence
or cease to be at all.
i can never tell them.
'dude that's ******* gay'
the low cackle of my parents laughing at my brother
'don't curse.'

the window at the store shows me with you
reflected back next to one another
but you're on the other side
maybe as a radio behind the glass
but even discounted i'm a little short
know that even that your voice
can be crackly and break
it can also be soft and smooth
and i'd bet all the money i have
that you purr like an old cat.
i know exactly where i'd put you
right next to the green teapot
where tunes would always play
until i stop you right after supper
and your hands run through
your black fire in concentration
until i can't help but marvel
at the expression your face displays
when i talk to you, the one
where the corners of your mouth
curl up like the spark of me
removing the plug from
the wall socket
by my bed.

please, muse, tell me about the girls i have known.
the sweet, drunken collision in late summer.
that second, drunker moan in early spring.
it wasn't real until they pressed their soft, wet lips to my own
and gave me the deed to my own life.
it wasn't real until i realised i could kiss back
wrapping my arms around her waist
stretching my hands up her back
feeling baby hairs at the tips of my fingers
slotting my tongue into her mouth
feeling my teeth clashing
gums sliding
like my back, up the wall.
it wasn't real until another begged me to slide into her bed, giggling,
pressing her nose to mine
slowly turning her face making me feel like i am plummeting
until i am caught by her sigh into my heavy mouth.
she pressed her body against mine and dug her hands into my thick hair
begging me,
begging me to remember it all tomorrow, to not forget.
i may have been buzzed,
drunk,
wasted,
but how could i deny her this gift?

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.'

Give me a thousand kisses.
I will not feel them.
Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred.
I will not feel them.
Old men and their centuries of crooning lend me nothing.
My heart is still, my night endless,
my thirst eternal.
Images of rivers, lakes, oceans
quench my thirst like nothing else,
yet drinking is ever the more repulsive.
The brief light has set.
da mi basia mille.
I will not feel them.

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

i am sitting on the edge of the mountain-top town
on the exact other side of the world;
my arrival has been one long daydream;
i watch the skyline distort itself
and pulse with the sharp winter morning,
as enormous green mountains arch their spines
into the tender caress of the cloudless sky.

i am seventeen
sitting in classics
seeing them hold hands. the girls.
they are proud.
open.
unrelenting.
hadrian eyes me, seeing i do not understand.
'cur invida es?'
i do not look at him.

                     odi et amo quare id faciam fortasse requiris
                            nescio sed fieri sentio et excrucior

he puts his hand on my shoulder
where it still remains.

arms open, she is always there.
night, with her tilted head,
fangs out and lips curled,
shaking with eagerness to ****** away daylight.

i do not mind. the light was not mine to keep.

swallowing the heavens, she sighs as i fall into her arms,
moonlight dripping from her shoulders,
and into my lap.

i breathe into her neck, where i am safe.
in nocte consilium:
the night brings counsel.

Blue rimmed sunglasses.
They were once someone else's.
They belonged to a boy with red hair,
always in the middle rows with no gaps
spared, endless friends.
Our eyes once met underground.
I know you do not remember.
Fearful eyes. I now recall.
I do not know why I ever thought it was
reverence.
Summer ending, hair cropped,
you greeted the person next to me
before shaking my hand.
We have just laughed away an hour in front of the lights.
Oh, mirabile auditu.

stones and laces fly as your soles hit the gravel
on that thick sunday morning
the mist heavy around us
your blouse slowly untucking itself
as you disappear over the crisp hill
you tell me not to follow you
the bitter bite of frost pinches at my hands
hanging heavily by my sides
hot savage breaths ballooning in the cold air
i hear your father's deafening roar
(or perhaps i imagine it)
and it is then that i finally i start to tremble
in all the glory
of the emerging sun.

i think it would be nice to have a moment
perhaps in the late afternoon
where i could lay myself across the grass
and our shoulders could bump together
like the branches above
and the breeze could smooth us into the earth
with you at my side
i think it would be nice

i saw you smile once.
i remember, you answered a call,
i dont know who it was,
but tension melted from your face
like ice cracking cleanly in warm water,
fondness seeping through
and settling just behind your eyes.
my chest was sent hurtling down a mountain,
crashing through trees and rocks,
and plummeting into summer lakes.
i could have spent endless days out there,
floating along those currents,
my boat sail snapping with the force of
your breathy laugh into the reciever.
i saw you smile once,
i remember.

we had been swaying all summer along the shore dreaming
when the water pulled you out and
unresisting
you let it
you let it
you let it
wrap its soft hands around your middle and take you
no splashing no struggle no sound
just me alone on the damp sand face wet with salt
already starting to shiver

i found the body of a small bird on my kitchen floor.
it was so small, legs curled upwards,
eyes lifeless and open.

how long had it been there? it was
evening, the silky winter light
had almost set, yet outside i cradled it
in my palm, soft and green.

on grass stained knees, i dug
dirt caked fingernails through
dusty earth, and
mumbling a prayer, gently buried
it under the camellia bush.

i have never been interested in death,
content with my own indifference,
but oh – to settle a beautiful thing,
tuck it into place under the earth above
which it once soared, to part the damp
soil and return what once was born –

was the world always this delicate?

cowboy, race your steed,
outrun what you desire most.
ride the hot desert wind,
hooves kicking up dust
(stings your eyes).
the strength of the muscle under your hands,
firm, twisting, curling muscle,
like your boy's back under your palms,
neck bent as you finally kiss his nape
(stings your eyes).
your home is dry, harsh, unforgiving.
but your boy's mouth is curling up under your own,
so, slowly, you learn to forgive.

I often think of the distance between us,
what it would mean for us to meet halfway,
sail out to some unknown island in the pacific,
and dock our vessels beside one another’s.
Nothing but the sound of your laughter,
the gentle knocking of our boats,
and the clear water lapping at our ankles
as we kick up sand along the ocean floor
trying to reach out to each other.
I think, the first time you take my hand,
that the heat on my skin will match
the warm in my chest, the sun free of
clouds to hide behind, open, bright.
You see, I have loved the ocean waves.
I have bathed in the sunshine and sand
like most never have. But in loving you,
my dear, I see the sea sparkle, the sand glow,
the sunshine beam, and delight at the salty
sting of your teeth biting my lip.
I often think of the distance between us,
and how when it does cease to exist,
salt will have never been so sweet.

my lover is to me as a sunrise over the mountains, easing heavy eyes and tugging at sprigs from the earth with warm hands

my lover is to me as a speckled cat upturned in dusty summer grass, pawing the sky, wind pulsing through field and fur

my lover is to me as a deep orange hazelnut in the palm of a hand, plucked from the warm canopy above

my lover is to me as the soft light of heaven rising on snowy windowsill,  melting what night fell, dripping me clean