One summer night, fingers came loose.
Like chess-pieces making unthinking moves.
In halogen shadow, it was our fin-de-siecle.
Our desire was pickled and put away
for its sour flavour to return when
things got too bland.
Our bodies speak a different language
They are totems of an age unlived.
There is economy in one pair of eyes
but our loins dream of excesses.
Like sailors when they leave land for
the sea again.
Again, we will drop anchor and walk our
walk down the pier to a place where they
will be able to tell that you think me a traitor
for filling you up with myself.
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