They believed they were lovers.
Into tiny worlds they fell,
terrains never mentioned in a syllabus.
In winter, the orange blanket graced with Buddha.
A yucca plant they neglected,
but kisses they brought home from the Alps.
Battling giant moods, ogres and typhoons.
Reading Neruda by lamplight, for days on end
clinging to the golden superstructures of their bodies.
Fascinated, obsessed, the lush locus of her mouth,
simply the movement of her lips
as she said the word “kindness”
sent his life to goosebump shadow
like a hushed eclipse.
In the mountains of their gaze
the moon rose and traffic blipped past,
and planes with the lifespans of insects.
They fought across their love, arguing and making up,
some days taking losses, on others amassing gains.
Always something to believe in…
The delicate teeming krill of thoughts, drifting across oceans,
or the pretty toys of equations.
The lines of poets with their moving stones and mysteries and birds.
Ah, yes, always something to believe in!…

And they believed they were lovers.
In her eyes he saw the centres of black suns.
His gaze, the flowing ants of genes
hauling off the booty of glistening sugar spilled
from beneath the picnic table.
The dense, inhuman jungle
haunted by the sad figures of poisoned machines
swaying to and fro with sparking limbs
trying to perform their tasks for no masters:
the servant hurrying nowhere in his blood-red cloak,
and the sentry with no gun
looking for a castle keep to guard.
The axeman with the slender silver axe
chopping down trees, stacking logs, then moving on,
chopping down trees, stacking logs…
The drunken robots in the forest glade
swapping tales of misperceptions.
In the summer breeze, how her thin dress
was lit through and her body was a shadow and her hair
flared upwards for an instant as if she was underwater…
Just the glide of stars they had forgotten.
Just the way she said, “kindness”…

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