What binds us is not the skin thin wire of a briar rose,
nor the silk scarf of a Balinese afternoon., it’s more the
curling of tongue around my toe, the colour of the wine in candlelight.

the moment you forgot to think.

What binds us is nothing tangible or new,
it’s the idea in your head of miracles
it’s the loath ness in my eyes to deal with love

a passing by.

The summer’s turned its head upon itself, begun to cry
and I am fighting panic from a sense that life will never happen,
as you become a figment of a smoky evening

stuck in memory to clear away, like after supper debris.