We could sit knee-to-knee. Like,
bogong moths,
they fall from the cave wall
when the people shine torches at them.
Like, sure, tell the moths
not to be so scared of being known.
My knee touching your knee
then sitting on top of it
flittering
til we get comfortable.
Windows at night like one-way glass
when there’s light within, me and you
in a little terrarium
all the birds asleep already though
Do you reckon the deer in the headlights
is an attention seeker? Probably,
but it’s dead now
so doesn’t matter.
The pink in your cheeks, not palm prints
but some come-down after glow.
We could just rot here for a bit and
become topsoil.
Nourish these graves for me, baby,
thresh these shoulders in your hands.
Wading home
across the mudflats;
the North Star, traversing the sky,
probably a poser as well.
Flittering, bogong, shin splints,
We could, turn a little closer to each other,
we can just be mates til the last second
and back again.
Juliet probably didn’t mean it either
but it doesn’t matter cause, well,
she’s dead.
Talking about grey herons.
Footprints on the channel silt, supernovae.
How is it that stingrays don’t sting each other?
I saw an albino once, twice,
bottom-dweller angel with blonde hair
like one of your girls. Sorry.
But you can still come to my place tomorrow.
I forgot what you do for work.
My favourite colour is brown bodies in the sun,
Though yours is alright, I s’pose.
Our bodies, the light, inviolate:
unyielding skin– unyielding skin–
your breath more or less
a mikveh.
You’ve got a sex poem about you now.
What ravishing provenance.
Oh, to pour tea after tea
instead of sleeping by you tonight.
Wouldn’t it be nice,
to have a boy as a wife.
Featured image from The New York Public Library on Unsplash.
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