Snowstorms in June

apple blossom in January

curve of a morning song,

 

Our sadness chimes with

fervour of Cathedral bells.

 

Your mouth tastes

of tobacco

raw from the fields,

 

your down covered body

some swirling sea creature

laid to rest on my shoulder.

 

We’re not made for other people,

with their murmurings and climaxes

they leave us bemused with their idiocy.

 

It’s a question of allowance

breaking mental chains that bind us.

 

We are poets and nothing else matters

nothing except the clime of the verb

punctuated with kisses.