This must be the place
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 thereās 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 itās dead now so doesnāt 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 didnāt mean it either but it doesnāt matter cause, well, sheās dead. Talking about grey herons. Footprints on the mud flats, supernovae. How is it that stingrays donāt 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 sāpose. Our bodies, the light, inviolate: unyielding skinā unyielding skinā your breath more or less a mikveh. Youāve got a sex poem about you now. What ravishing provenance. Oh, to pour tea after tea instead of sleeping by you tonight. Wouldnāt it be nice, to have a boy as a wife.