In Your Gardens

In Your Gardens

 

Within your gardens, asleep but dressed

on top of sheets our faces pressed

into creases, following thought’s themes

inside a sultry afternoon’s waking dreams,

which, this time, did never evolve

into an eternal pursuit by hirsute lioness

imprisoned by some Kafkaesque safari park,

and in panic looking for any means

of escape, grip walls with noiseless screams

aching our swallowing, arching mouths.

Then, come light, we unpick stitches apart,

flighting from dun hell’s clammy dark,

to fling wet pillows from heated heads.

Rest. Here instead, our love no longer dead;

you’re smiling adoration up to my window,

enfolding our washing somewhere below

two coupled magpies, that skittering go

about their twined joyous business.

Something of what we inside us witness

together smacks of truth. I have seen

some of this before: it hurts, it aches,

it gives, it takes, it seeks to forever break

that which is broken and yet bare blushes

leave cuts where your mind mine brushes,

it comes, it goes, into our hearts it rushes

like the tide must force the tunnel wide.

Your smile, the one somewhere foolish lost,

tossed into seas I was forced to cross

rocks my heart upon your swollen breasts

asleep, but pressed within your gardens.