Night Dance

And the wooden table

Breathed all over me.
And I leant for­ward
to lick your let­ters.
Which tasted sharp
and magnetic.

 

But I’m no compass.

 

I’m just a deciphered
cod fish
laid open inside a
lead bot­tomed bottle.

 

And the wires we
sing through
eat teeth and scales
with every heart broken
res­on­ance they make.

 

The del­ic­ate jew­ellery
of liquid
undresses the words
in your throat
And we begin to dance
all night
around weav­ing our memor­ies
by broken light.

 

Dizzy dizzy dizzy
we spin to a stop
to won­der if it’s the spin­ning
or the stop­ping we’re wait­ing for.

 

To know other people’s
words
in a world like this, right now
seems impossible. In the most
won­der­ful sense.

 

It must be the heightened
sense of sea
that we’re look­ing for.
Con­stantly swim­ming back
to the swirl that we came from.

 

For­get­ting why we
so des­per­ately grew legs
and lungs
in order to leave.

 

- New­castle 2010

Leave a Reply