Holloway

A magpie cleans itself on his folium.
The clouds are careful among icebergs.
Apples green like erotic buds. The air shifts
In fractal choreography,
Freshening the fingers of the root.
Branches bend their hips like Hindu dancers.
For a moment a stillness comes with a glance of sun,
The wind pausing for a replete note of rest,
Before the city's saxophone blast.

We don't prepare for our passing.
We swallow our joys whole, forgetting to chew
Between each mouthful of light. We want
Salt and bitter citrus, treacle,
Instead of the slow malt aftertaste
Like paintwork on our curious tongue.
We want a shudder not love. Pressure not touch.
We think beauty is locked in the eyes and lips,
Not the toes, shoulder blades and armpits.
Our passions are gaseous light, suction lusts.
We neglect the wood fire chakras,
The slow cackle of heat and burn.
As a woman's soul cannot be traded,
A man's cannot be bartered or plumed.
Closeness is still theater, the body proscenium.