A door opens,
the room is flooded with light.
A man
spills his seed on his lover�s belly,
wipes it away,
kisses the place where it fell.
The tips of her fingers
brush his shoulder-blade.
A door opens,
the room is
flooded with light.
Her mouth tastes of wood-smoke and snow.
Light, again, after all this time,
the first
light through the window,
the full
torrent of day,
dream-light,
star-light,
light
from the curve
of her shoulder,
the bright
surface of her eye,
and all I had to do
was wait.
What if I had not waited?
How difficult
to be an angel
amidst the cities of earth
to fit
such large wings
into car-seats, mirrors
how hard to prevent them
dragging in the dust
of traffic and meetings
or deal with
the trimming of fingernails,
cutting of hair
�to survive
the nets
of lovers and children
or hide their terrible
power
from the ones they love
How long they must sleep
and how carefully
to replace the feathers they have lost
We talk all night
peeling back the layers.
Later it seems
not even the skin comes between us.
In the morning
I watch you put it all on again,
the language,
the past,
the mind�s clothes as well as the body�s.
You step out onto the street
and the street catches you,
but the street knows only the half of it.
Pale, soft fruit. Odour of dusk.
She�s still at the age
where she thinks that she�s immortal,
smokes too much,
drives far too fast,
can drink almost anyone under the table,
claims that she has
a special dispensation from God,
maybe because she met the Pope once,
more likely because she�s seen some things
and knows how to farm a secret;
has a revolver in her wardrobe,
a fetish for
knocking into people on the street,
hates, like she loves, unconditionally,
always gets what she wants,
wants me.
My panther is active tonight,
hungry, intent,
nobody�s business but her own
not content
to leave me
gutted by moonlight,
I must be
her lair-thing,
her skin-to-lie-on,
her gnawed bone.