He liked aubergines.
Not just for the taste -
but also for their look and shape
like silk bells stroked by moonlight
in extacious growth.
He loved their colour too
like the edges of neon in rain
or passion in the summer dusk.
Curved like a marble womb
in the palm of his hand.
Yes, he liked aubergines,
and so do I.
Like distant slide
from crown of mountain slip
into very pit of who I am.
Here is vertigo for cliff-edged
hearts like yours that tip-toe
ankle winds.
There,
clutching gravity’s stall
of bloodstream rush,
like freshwater dashed in magnet dance
you move as particles
swirling toward the iron lips
of polar sea.
Through permafrost
and frozen root, gulley cut
and porous bed - the centre
to the core, traveling deep
within sediment soul,
and onto icepools
that only you
can thaw.
I crave soft-armed
cradle of you, holding
us dispersed on froth
of season’s roll.
You know so well
how to raise our
stopdrift souls,
lift eyes above
the cold horizon.
Like a puppeteer
placing strings -
upon his things,
with twist of wire
and raise of armiture.
Us; the shorebound
scarred and dry.
Tattered fabric
jellyfish marooned
at the bottom
of a box festooned
and waiting,
for a show
of tide.