And the night has great spirit
so she will be disgusted if you do not
at least prove that your measures of horror
are forgotten like dead poems and unformed cities
where she steps over them with you
and litters their roof tops with her feet
our scents know our shadows
welcoming them, creating them
like drunk shadow puppets guessing names
below a tower bridge,
– light
eating my fathers old teeth, remaining our mother
growing day from slashes in the river tone
calling out, sleeping well when the diving pace
is still, or floating in a crazy tank
that x-rays our hands until they release our fist
asking that no thought should permeate
the vice of our restless birds, the day humble
rolling out like animals from a burrow, I
throw my eyes out. curving them against the wall
all the better for having some dice,
as the street changes them and unites
our mirrored limbs near the southbank
where it chooses a low voice to speak in the thames
and hides 2am in the wind,
and that same voice
throws my eyes back, and lets me see yours,
where finally, the last reaction in the black,
is never human, it’s the breath, that shares it all
letting dominion know
that its welcome too, as long as it rests
whilst we dance
and relays our union
from skin beating drum
to landscapes that join
finding spirit in the meakest time
that sing the same
as cries of war
or laughter
within the fox hours
of our home.
