“THE untold want by life and land ne’er granted, Now voyager sail thou forth to seek and find.” Walt Whitman
In the way
piano plays in an empty room,
trains hold commuters
as travelling hearts in skin baggage,
poetry passports are open to declare
Steel wheels shred Atlantic jet streams
within compass mist,
north by northwest sky hangars
let me slowly undress you in mind turbulence,
buttons pop as small bombs
between your legs
As dreams await dreamers
hotel bed sheets are envelope shrouds,
RSVP smeared by ghost’s lipstick onto pure white,
they count incoming footsteps
waiting our reply, bitten into your neck
Shoulders pinned, legs sprawled
rising above you
look into swallows in my eyes
and tell me where they fly to,
beyond balconies and balletic canals
their landing spot will be our dancefloor
Tourist tides leave lifeguards at home
puddle paddles sold on Belgium eBay,
all who are lost
can always be found
Star bone-work and moon’s vowel
lantern blue from carpet to ceiling
streetlights burn as Hopkins to
Bancroft Charing Cross candles,
the unseen epistles Burton to Taylor
The longest night of massage
until my fingers and thumb
bleed into your skin, sow seeds
across your cliff top pearl
To rim ferocious as Bruges
first lake tumbling over the bank,
your head upon my chest
turns Switzerland clocks to dusty sundials
forthwith, whereupon, henceforth
time lies is a an bottle
Broken glass theatre
and only shards are Bruges actors
who transmute desire into union,
Belgium, are we coming?
It sounds as if this is a pleasurable trip.
It was.