You are very strange in this world of blue codes.
I cannot remember the colour of your wallpaper, or
what you chose to hang above the door.
I would talk about your eyes, but it is dark now.



I have eaten you raw on these foreign nights,
when there wasn't much to do except read and write:
seeing those careful balls of silence roll along
with all my drunken plans sizzling;



how you taught me to dance around antique fireplaces
owned by the blues singer who once sang the history
of the canals of England, the arteries of our country -
and then sunlight painting the moles of your back;

​

I remember this map, leading to your touch.
This formation of things as they should be.