Scribbles: November 2006 Archives

come
take off your toil,
unlace the lips
of your uniform's smile

i will wash it
along with mine
scrub out the sighs
and hang our sodden spirits
on the line, just

come
to this room i keep warm
it has no roof, no floor
no walls
but my arms.

they emerged from your early
ardent months into the next
doused and salted
the earth exhausted of its blush
while all of us leant from your arms
to the shade

and after the bedsheets in bin bags
return from the laundrette
and spent, you walk us with
soft palms, faithful smiles...
the trees allude with menstrual leaves to
desertion

even while they
with their
synchronised seeding
delicately
nurse their
your
fruits down
hill.