Monday, 21 February 2011

the men we are

If you came to me again
after all this time
through the sun or rain or snow
in any weather
you would find me
paused all sticky fingers waiting
recognising the smell of you impatient

What do memories become?

Between your legs
a map of hair to trace
a promise of secretions unimagined.
I can imagine you
opening up into futures unwritten
you have no idea yet
of what you've begun

What do memories become?

I don’t know
About the easy come easy go
ways of who we’ve been
I don’t know
how to piece together
the glimpses of the
men we are when no-one’s watching

What do memories become?

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