You are the weight of wet sheets
strung from head to hip
in folds and folds and folds
and when I move to meet you
in sharp angles with
hips moving like greased hinges
it is a kind of love

You could be nothing more
than a hard-backed parasite
crawling without sound
down an ear and into my heart
sliding into sticky places
gorged on breath and sweat
when not the slightest crack of light
divides you and I

And times when the picture
is without all contrast
two shadows crowd under
awnings and unknown doors
my back against the lock
greedy hands scooping sand
and looking for mud
in a land with no rain

This is when I mix pigments
to capture us in colour
copper golds and inky blues
images on a pile of sawdust
paint tumbling like dirty raindrops
a collection of confetti
at my feet and on fingertips
party songs moving in retreat