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Waiting for the Perseids
I want to steer him out onto the veranda;
he says he doesn't believe in wishing on stars
nor in gravity, for that matter.
On some days he wants to ask for proof of both
regardless of miracles, cracks in the pavement
and the substance he's smoked the night before.
His hands know the secret of ink stains,
how they suck blackness from thunderclouds
until he refuses to dream in anything but colour --
mad fish defying freak currents, serpents moulting
in a painted desert, pomegranate seeds, bananas
he attempts to straighten with swift fingers.
Meteors shower down on me, he draws the curtains;
a grasshopper rubs against grass blades - I wish
I could carry the sound to him, between my lips.
He shivers a love song on the Steinway grand,
sleepwalks me home across a city feeding on dreams,
tiny splinters of stardust getting stuck in our bare feet.
Word Scout
-- For Arlene Ang
I see you in my mind's eye
sweeping Venetian backstreets
with your full-length purple coat,
too slender to be a gypsy,
a different fire in your eyes.
You walk lanes into existence
with random steps; behind you,
they promptly contemplate coiling up.
You don't strew breadcrumbs,
you never walk the same street twice.
In the corners of dusty piazzas,
words flock to you like pigeons
as you reach out to them, promising
a happy life in all the great places.
Sometimes in dreams
I watch you wringing their necks,
twisting them into every shape
your cruel muse demands.
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