We stand by waters edge and pray at desert sand as tides they are rising and ships they are sinking. You hold my hand and as I do the crinkling laughter between my toes, I can feel your hand breathe. Red as the blue is pink by skies we call out to yellow poppies where the dead they do lie. In mystic dreams and poems without seams where seemingly we loved as scribbles across the table and heat between. Deep it rise. High it flow. Around the fairest wheel and things not mine. They were not mine. There is no. Mind filled field of broken dolls. And broken dogs. In houses of high-sheen plastic not big enough. Not big enough for me. For me and the crevices between mine. And all inside. And in that place where we lay, remember that? Under beds and in oversize shoes. Curlers to tickle our faces and kisses too our eye-lashes. By fingers I touched you and it was I who flinched. To songs did we cry. By waters edge. Pray at desert sand. We lied. In sun. In clouds dipped in secret parts of red splat and green seed. In fields where men lay. In parts where often sound. By cupboard shelves and roses dry. And in that place. In that place where you found me there. Where words they fled and moons they did shine. By cows and meadows and nights and tales not mine. Not mine. Not mine by the laugh of your hair. Or the bites of your teeth. And when we came out under the bridge the man standing there. Purple ribbon fiddling at his throat. The iron cold. The stare. Too much. There you said to promise. Remember that? There you said to promise. Remember that? Played at knees. And skirts underneath. And hands at my cheeks. To dig deep inside earth. To smells I knew. To memory. To you. To cries of break. Without roots they grow in broken skies green. Watery feet as we climbed up pillar trees of giant and maiden and harp. Plastic forks float on by. And she squats to break. Placenta by fist vein. "What?" By waters edge. Pray at desert sand. We lied. In sun.
