A small truth
Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark.
In the auction-room, toy trains wait like ribs
to be eaten, they smell like wet sacks
full of delicious smoke, darned with swollen
fingers in the cold of a Kashmiri morning.
I smile as the pigeons hum into life
so sweet and forgetful was my pain;
the sands of the Ganges shake like a dog
who has slept in mud in the slippery-shining
mud flats - I do not know where
is the flute; in the hull of a boat maybe
its tone is wet,
splash splash splash is my heart splashing
with blood and nervousness.
she is sailing to decorate a birth.
all the labels are laughingly locked away
she laughs as i scratch his furry back
a fine coxcomb of time flashes into the mirror
a penumbra of kisses spreads
stamped and crushed on the lips of my pillow
as we lie down on these hills of thirst
where I yearn for a waterfall
to stop me burning in the sun's rays
and so that you can dance
like a fountain, in all its shimmering lightness.