Of what mechanisms, are we?

I reach in and grab your tonsil.

 

From a mime, I learnt such conversations

of a back and forth, and a back and forth –

a batted ball, a wall, of a mouth and a hand –

 make clockwork,

a life’s work.

At your feet I sit, imagining your knots

are tangerines, dropping fizzing

pills straight into my stomach,

where they grow like vines

and nourish; rooted

and permanent.

 

Maybe I am careful to listen, make too much

of what is said,

too counted, with the seconds passed, and instead

should draw a moustache

not so eager to exhaust

 the sum in my head,

of every breath towards the last,

and imagine you, a spirograph –

connected and present

and linear and past

all in a circle’s spinning mast.