It is only
shadows moving on water.

It is only
her hands stroking your body.

So forget about the moon, tonight,
and forget about tomorrow.

Perhaps you will think of the spring,
remember the Russians
going mining for helium.

Voracious wolf of the fire,
lie down in smoke.

And dress your children as fairies
in acorn hats of felt and tinsel,
dress them as noble knights
with cardboard armour and swords of tinfoil.

Maybe you’ll dream the same dream
of flight and the wings on your ankles,
maybe there will be no dreams,
and if there are no dreams
what will you bring from your sleep,
not even a darkness?

Voracious wolf of the smoke,
climb into the air
with your red-eye of embers:
not everyone can live here,
although everyone must live here,
one with the ashes, one with cold.

Here, with the conker opening on your palm,
bonce-bashing green spikes of the specific,
and the come-hither
auburn gaze and its lashes and the white.

Here, where tomorrow ends, always,
with the moon and waves in your brain,
and the new seconds, and the new seconds…

So dress your children as cowboys,
dress them as ballerinas,
with sixguns from China,
and crackling thistledown tutus.

They are only
your sons and your daughters.

It is only
her hands stroking your body.

It is only
shadows moving on water.

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